Category: English

On my tenth birthday, just because I had spent a single five-dollar bill, my father dragged me down the pavement by my wrist, forcing me to beg on my knees. “Beg the cashier to give our money back!” Tears instantly spilled over my lashes, but he didn’t give me a chance to struggle. That was how I was forced to crawl on my bruised knees from the corner gas station where I’d bought a cheap cupcake, all the way down the block to the dollar store where I’d bought a plastic pen. I had to return everything, piece by piece, just to get that crumpled five-dollar bill back. A crowd had gathered. They pointed and whispered. The heat of humiliation rushed to my face, turning my cheeks a violent crimson before draining away, leaving me sickly pale. When we finally got back to our cramped, drafty basement apartment, Dad pulled out his phone, his face an emotionless mask, and opened his banking app. He shoved the screen in my face. “Read it. How much is in there?” I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. “Eight… eight dollars and forty-two cents.” That was when his temper finally shattered. He threw the phone onto the ratty sofa and looked at me with a grief so profound it made my chest ache. “Do you have any idea how long it takes your mother and me to save five dollars? Sammy, you have disappointed me more than words can say!” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “We are poor. We have nothing! Burn that into your memory!” I sobbed, choking on my own tears, promising over and over that I understood, that I would never spend another dime as long as I lived. The next day, I threw up blood in the school bathroom. The school nurse asked if I wanted her to call an ambulance. I clutched the blood-soaked paper towels in my trembling fists and swallowed hard, shaking my head. “No. We can’t,” I rasped. “My family doesn’t have any money.” … 1 The nurse frowned, her hand freezing over the medical cabinet. “You can’t just ignore this, Sammy. If I’m not mistaken, this is the fifth time you’ve vomited blood this month.” I sat on the edge of the examination bed, the crinkling paper loud in the quiet room. My face was whiter than my faded, oversized school uniform. It took me a long time to force the words past the lump in my throat. “Is it… is it really bad?” I twisted my thin fingers together in my lap. “Would it cost a lot of money to fix?” She thought for a moment, her expression softening. “It shouldn’t. The school has a basic insurance policy for students. If we just send you to the urgent care clinic down the street for some tests, the most you’d pay is a co-pay.” A flicker of hope lit up my eyes, but then she kept talking. “It’s just fifty dollars.” The light inside me snuffed out instantly. I licked my cracked lips, tasting copper. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. Fifty dollars… Where would my family get that kind of money? We couldn’t even afford a five-dollar birthday cupcake. I couldn’t afford to be sick. Seeing my silence, the nurse sighed. “Let me go to the back room and get you some over-the-counter pain medication. It’s twelve dollars.” She turned and disappeared into the supply closet. I pressed my lips together. I shoved my hand into my empty pocket, feeling nothing but lint. Then, clutching my violently cramping stomach, I ran. Let it hurt. It didn’t matter. I just had to grit my teeth and bear it. Twelve dollars was an impossible fortune for my parents. But the moment I burst out of the clinic doors, I collided with my homeroom teacher, Mr. Evans—the one who had carried me to the nurse in the first place. “Still hurting, kiddo? What did the nurse say? Do you want me to call your folks to take you to a real hospital?” The rapid-fire concern made my chest tight. I couldn’t even look him in the eye. “I’m fine, Mr. Evans. Please, don’t call my parents. They work so hard, they’re so busy. Please.” I forced the brightest, most convincing smile I could muster. Under the hem of my jacket, I pinched my own thigh so hard that the sheer spike of pain forced some color back into my cheeks. He studied me for a long, heavy moment. “Alright. You’re looking a bit better. Head back to class if you’re up for it.” I exhaled a shaky breath of relief and hurried back to my desk. Halfway through third period, I coughed up a few more mouthfuls of blood. I quietly spat them into tissues, folded them tight, and shoved them deep into the darkest corner of my desk cubby. But God, my stomach hurt so much… When the lunch bell rang, the other kids pulled out colorful thermoses and neatly packed bento boxes filled with warm food their parents had made. I opened my faded plastic container, and the snickering began immediately. “Stale bread again? Sammy, is that really all your parents feed you?” I lowered my eyes, letting my eyelashes hide my burning shame. I didn’t say a word. But one of the boys wasn’t satisfied. He reached out, roughly yanking the collar of my worn-out shirt, his lip curling in disgust. “His family is just white trash. Look at his clothes—he’s swimming in them, and there’s a hole in the back! Sammy the beggar!” The boys huddled around his desk erupted into cruel laughter. I snatched my collar out of his grip, my eyes red and stinging. “My mom and dad love me! Don’t you dare talk about them!” They were just winding up to shove me when Mr. Evans walked into the room, freezing them in their tracks. He took one look at the dry, unbuttered heel of bread in my container and let out a long, heavy sigh. Without a word, he walked over, opened his own lunch, and scooped half of his warm chicken casserole into my box. “Eat up, Sammy. Tell your folks to pack you some real protein tomorrow.” Tears breached my defenses, spilling down my cheeks. But plain bread is the best we have, I wanted to say. Mom and Dad don’t even let themselves eat this much. When I was younger and didn’t know any better, I used to cry and complain about eating stale bread. I remembered the day Dad, with bloodshot eyes, dragged me into their cramped bedroom. He had pulled a moldy crust of a baguette from a drawer and threw it at my feet. “You think we eat well while you suffer?” he had yelled. “Sammy, do you have any idea what your mother and I sacrifice just to keep you alive?” I had stared at the fuzzy, green-spotted bread on the floor in pure shock. “Dad…” Mom had stood in the corner, wiping away quiet tears. “Sammy, don’t compare yourself to those rich kids. We are giving you the absolute best of what we can afford.” I had dropped to my knees, picked up the moldy bread, and slapped my own arm in punishment, sobbing out an apology. I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Dad. Sammy won’t be a brat anymore. From now on, I’ll only eat half of my bread. You can have the rest. Now, sitting in the classroom, I looked at the rich, warm food Mr. Evans had given me. When no one was looking, I carefully snapped the lid shut over the casserole. Mom and Dad worked so incredibly hard. I was going to take it home for them. Smiling to myself, I tucked the container into my backpack. Then, I picked up my half-eaten, dry slice of bread. A fresh cough bubbled up, and the blood painted the white crust red. I ignored it. Fighting through the agonizing spasms in my gut, I chewed the bloody bread and swallowed it, piece by piece. 2 When I got back to our basement apartment after school, I carefully took out the Tupperware of warm food. “Look, Dad! I saved this just for you!” I beamed. “You’ve been working so hard today.” Dad collected scrap metal for a living. He was up before dawn every single day, pushing a rusty cart through the alleys. I knew his bones ached. He froze, staring at the food in my hands, hesitating to take it. “Dad?” I quickly grabbed a chipped mug and poured him some tap water, figuring he was just exhausted from the grind. He finally snapped out of his daze. “Thank you, Sammy. You’re such a good boy.” As if rewarding me, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a single piece of hard butterscotch candy in a shiny wrapper. “I saved up my spare change all week to buy you this.” He patted my shoulder. “You have to stay thrifty, kiddo. Don’t let our sacrifices go to waste. Study hard, get a good job, and one day you can buy us a big house.” I took the candy and unwrapped it. It was so sweet. I nodded fiercely. “I will, Dad. I promise I won’t let you down.” He turned away, looking satisfied. But the moment his back was turned, a vicious cramp seized my stomach, and a whimpering gasp slipped through my lips before I could stop it. He paused halfway to the kitchen. “What was that?” I bit down on my tongue until I tasted copper. “Nothing, Dad! You heard wrong.” He mumbled an “okay” and walked away. I let out a shaky breath, using the wall to support my weight as I dragged myself toward the cramped laundry nook where my mattress lay on the concrete floor. There were spiderwebs in the corners. I was terrified of spiders, but I just pulled the thin blanket tightly over my head so I wouldn’t have to see them. The next morning, I didn’t wake up on my own. I was violently yanked off the mattress by Mom. Before my eyes could even focus, her screaming assault hit my ears. “Sammy!” She looked at me with an expression of sheer disgust. “Your father and I might be dirt poor, but we have our dignity! And you? You steal from your classmates?!” I froze, the sleep instantly banished from my brain. Dad was standing behind her, shaking his head with bitter disappointment. “How did we raise a thief?” “No! I didn’t!” I scrambled back, waving my hands frantically. But Mom aggressively flipped the pocket of my uniform jacket inside out. A crisp hundred-dollar bill fluttered to the ground. “I found this hidden in your jacket! Don’t you dare lie to my face!” My eyes widened so far they hurt. Panic clawed up my throat. “I didn’t steal it…” A hundred dollars? I had never even seen a hundred-dollar bill up close. How would I ever have the guts to steal one? “I don’t know how it got in there!” I sobbed, crawling toward them. “Please, you have to believe me!” Dad just shook his head, looking utterly defeated. “It was in your pocket. We have to take it back to the school and pay restitution to whoever you took it from.” He let out a long, ragged breath. “Starting tonight, I’m not sleeping. I’ll take on a third graveyard shift at the recycling plant.” I looked at him with sheer heartbreak as he delivered the final blow. “This is the price of your mistakes, Sammy. Remember what your mother and I have to endure because of you.” They didn’t listen to another word of my desperate apologies. They just turned around and walked out the door. “Cough! Cough…” A massive wave of blood violently spewed from my mouth, splattering across my thin blanket. Terrified they would hear, I clamped both hands over my mouth, forcing myself to swallow the rest of the thick, coppery liquid back down. I sat on the cold concrete, crying until my ribs ached. I couldn’t understand how the money got into my pocket. All I knew was that because of me, my parents were going to suffer even more. No. I curled my trembling hands into fists. I have to make my own money. I have to pay for my own doctor, and I have to help them. I can’t be a burden anymore! With a sudden burst of desperate energy, I scrambled up. I skipped school and wandered toward the commercial district to look for a job. But every time I walked into a diner or a hardware store and begged to sweep floors, the managers just scowled and shooed me out. “You’re a kid, for Christ’s sake! Get out of here before I call child services. You’re scaring the customers!” Clutching my stomach, which felt like it was being twisted by rusted knives, I was chased from block to block. No one wanted me. “I didn’t know making money was this hard…” When my legs finally gave out, I collapsed against the brick wall of an alleyway. I hugged my knees, weeping, my heart aching for how hard Mom and Dad had to work every single day. Why does it hurt so much?! I thought, pounding my fist weakly against my own chest. Why did I have to get sick? Why did that stupid hundred dollars have to be in my pocket?! “Hey there, sweetie.” A middle-aged woman with kind eyes suddenly crouched down in front of me. “Are you looking to make some cash?” My dull eyes sparked to life. “Can you give me a job, ma’am?” She smiled warmly. “Of course I can. Come with me.” I pushed myself up off the ground, gripping her hand like a lifeline. As long as I could help Mom and Dad, I didn’t care how hard the work was! But… the pain in my stomach was reaching a crescendo. The woman led me to an idling gray van and pulled me inside. The moment the doors slammed shut, my body convulsed, and I violently retched a mouthful of pitch-black blood all over the rubber floor mats. “Jesus Christ, this kid looks like he’s seconds from dying!” a man in the driver’s seat barked. “The buyers aren’t gonna pay for a terminal liability!” The kind woman’s face instantly hardened into a sneer. I desperately tried to wipe my mouth on my sleeve. “I’m not sick! I swear!” She just glared at me. Without a word, she shoved the sliding door open and violently kicked me out of the moving van, leaving me tumbling into the dirt on the side of a deserted suburban highway. I lay in the gravel, stunned. I tried to crawl after the fading taillights, but my arms gave out. Another violent cough wracked my frail body, painting the pavement red. I collapsed, my cheek pressed against the cold asphalt. “Don’t go…” I reached a trembling, blood-stained hand toward the empty road. “I need to make money… for my Mom and Dad…” My eyelids were so heavy. They felt like they were made of lead. I just want to sleep. Just a quick nap, and then I’ll find another job. “Just five minutes, Sammy,” I whispered to the empty air. And then, I closed my eyes for good. 3 When I woke up, the sun had set. Oddly enough, my body didn’t hurt anymore. The twisting knives in my stomach were entirely gone. I didn’t think too much about it. I just stood up and started running in the direction of home. But I didn’t know where I was, so I just aimlessly followed the shoulder of the road. “Mr. Carmichael, the Michelin chef you flew in has everything prepped at the restaurant. Shall we head over?” “Yes, let’s go.” I heard the deep, commanding voice and spun around instinctively. “Dad?” But as soon as the word left my mouth, I shook my head. No, the man stepping into the sleek black Maybach parked near the curb was wearing a tailored Italian suit. He looked like a billionaire. He just happened to sound exactly like my dad. I rubbed my eyes and started walking again. But then the world blinked, pitching into a dizzying black void, and when my vision cleared, I was somehow sitting in the back seat of that very Maybach, right next to the wealthy stranger. I stared, my mind short-circuiting. The man in the suit… his face was an exact replica of my father’s. Up front, the chauffeur glanced in the rearview mirror and sighed. “Sir, forgive me for overstepping, but how much longer is this charade going to last? When are you going to bring young Samuel home?” Young Samuel? Was he talking about me? I didn’t understand. I just sat there, invisible, staring blankly at the back of the driver’s head. “After he graduates high school, maybe,” the wealthy man sighed, adjusting his silk tie. “Our educational method is working perfectly. Look at how resilient and frugal Sammy has become. He’s ten times the man Tyler is.” Tyler? Who is Tyler? A few minutes later, the Maybach pulled up to the valet of a stunning, palatial restaurant with crystal chandeliers—the kind of place I would have been too scared to even walk past. “Darling.” I followed the man’s gaze and felt my breath hitch. My pupils dilated in sheer shock. It was Mom. She was wearing an elegant evening gown, her hair perfectly styled. So… these impossibly rich people really were my parents? But how? How was that even possible? We couldn’t even afford fifty dollars for a doctor! Just then, a teenage boy wearing a designer blazer ran up and threw his arms around Dad. They were escorted into a massive, private VIP dining room. A dozen waiters in immaculate uniforms hovered nearby, carrying silver trays. Plates of food that looked like art were set down on the white linen table. I stared, my mouth hanging open. There was so much meat. Steaks that sizzled on hot stones, roasted duck, and massive red things with giant claws that I’d only ever seen in library books. Dad pointed a fork at the teenager. “Eat up. Your little brother would kill for a meal like this. Count your blessings, Tyler. I’ve finalized your transfer to that private academy in Switzerland. You fly out in three days.” Brother? I whipped my head around to stare at the teenager. I had a brother? Since when did I have an older brother? Tyler rolled his eyes, shoving a massive piece of buttery lobster tail into his mouth. “Seriously, how long are you two going to keep playing dress-up? I’m just glad I’m not Sammy. It’s practically child abuse.” He washed the food down with a sip of sparkling water. “We literally own half the real estate in the city. Carmichael Industries is worth billions. Yet you make him live in a rat-infested basement and eat garbage. I don’t get it.” Dad scowled, setting his knife down sharply. “It is to forge his character! Growing up in absolute poverty is the only way to build an unbreakable will. Not like you, who whines when the Wi-Fi drops. Look at how responsible Sammy is.” Mom, dripping in diamonds that caught the chandelier light and blinded me, nodded in agreement, delicately slicing her wagyu beef. “He’s obedient, yes, but his psychological fortitude is still too weak. I mean, look at yesterday. He found a hundred-dollar bill in his pocket. If he had any real grit, he would have dragged us to the school to confront his classmates and demand an investigation. Then he would’ve realized I was testing him.” She took a slow, satisfied bite of her steak. “Instead, he just panicked and cried. How can I trust him to take over a multibillion-dollar empire one day if he crumbles over a hundred bucks? No. Your father and I need to keep him in the slums to break him down and build him back up properly.” My gaze locked onto her face. The room started spinning. A deafening ringing filled my ears, drowning out the clinking of crystal glasses. Fake… Our poverty was fake. My family was filthy rich. That hundred dollars… they planted it to frame me. “No… no, that’s not true… it can’t be true!” I lunged at my father, trying to grab his lapels to scream in his face, but my hands just phased right through his chest like smoke. “What’s happening?” I stumbled backward, falling onto the plush carpet. And then, as I stared at my translucent, glowing hands, the realization crashed down on me, crushing my soul. I began to wail. “I’m dead… I’m really dead.” 4 For as long as they sat there eating, I sat on the floor, screaming and crying. I screamed until my phantom throat felt raw. I demanded to know why they lied to me! Why did we have all the money in the world, yet they let me be tortured and humiliated over pennies?! But they didn’t hear a single word of my agony. I listened to the waiters describe the dishes. Truffle risotto, beluga caviar, venison medallions. Words I didn’t even know how to spell, let alone taste. After they finished their coffee, Dad wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and looked at Mom. “Let’s just sleep at the main estate tonight. My back is killing me from that basement cot. Sammy thinks we’re pulling a double shift at the recycling plant anyway.” Mom nodded elegantly. “Perfect. We can use our ‘exhaustion’ tomorrow morning to teach him another lesson about sacrifice.” The three of them walked out, laughing and joking, and climbed into the Maybach. I sat in the very back, watching their happy, smiling faces through a waterfall of tears. The car drove for an hour before pulling through the wrought-iron gates of an estate so vast it looked like a castle. I floated out of the car, staring numbly as they walked through the grand mahogany doors. It was massive. It was beautiful. There were no gray concrete floors. No spiderwebs. No roaches scurrying under the fridge. The marble floors here were cleaner than my bedsheets back in the basement. I drifted through the foyer and stopped dead. Hanging above the grand staircase was a massive oil painting. It was a family portrait. And there I was—a baby in my mother’s arms. So this was where I belonged. This was my real home. A fleet of housekeepers rushed forward to take their coats, hand them warm towels, and offer them slippers. One maid prepared a hot footbath for my dad, while an esthetician applied a gold-leaf face mask to my mom’s skin. I let out a broken, bitter laugh. My vision blurred. So this was how they lived, completely out of my sight. All while I was curled up under a thin sheet, praying the spiders wouldn’t crawl on my face, paralyzed by anxiety every single night. I was such an idiot. I dragged my dying, cancer-ridden body through the streets, begging for work just so I could ease their burden. If I had actually managed to earn a few dollars, they probably would have just stepped on the dirty bills with their five-thousand-dollar Italian leather shoes. I was so desperate to save half a portion of cafeteria casserole for them. The food they were eating tonight… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams. I followed them up to the master bedroom. The massive king-sized bed looked like a cloud. The marble shower was bigger than our entire slum apartment. I see. On those nights when I sat on my floor mattress, crying tears of guilt because I thought they were out breaking their backs for me… On those nights when my stomach acid burned holes inside me, and I couldn’t sleep because we couldn’t afford a twelve-dollar bottle of pills… They were here. Enjoying paradise. I sat in the corner of their lavish bedroom and silently cried until the sun came up. The next morning, they got back into the Maybach, but had the chauffeur park three blocks away from the slum neighborhood. “Stop here. We can’t risk him seeing the car,” Dad ordered. He stripped off his bespoke suit, changing into stained, oversized work clothes, instantly transforming back into a beaten-down, working-class man. Mom messed up her perfect blowout and tied a faded, stained apron around her waist. They unlocked the basement door and stepped inside. “Sammy?” Dad called out, tossing a plastic bag with a cold, generic-brand muffin onto the rickety table. “Dad’s off his shift. Brought you breakfast.” Silence. He frowned. Mom nudged him. “Look at the time, David. He already left for school.” “Ah, right.” Dad walked over to the counter, opened the Tupperware container of the chicken casserole I had proudly saved for him, and looked at it with sheer disgust. Without a second thought, he scraped it directly into the garbage disposal and turned on the faucet. Just then, Mom’s phone rang. It was Mr. Evans. She put it on speakerphone. “Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael? First period is already over. I was just wondering why Sammy hasn’t shown up to class today?” Both of them froze. “He’s not at school?!” Sensing the rising panic, Mr. Evans’s voice grew tight. “Sammy has thrown up blood in class several times recently. You don’t think he collapsed on his way to school, do you?” Mom and Dad locked eyes, the color draining from their faces. They bolted for the door, but the moment Dad yanked it open, he froze in his tracks. Standing on the cracked concrete porch were two police officers. The lead officer looked at them with a grim expression. “We found a body on the side of Highway 9 this morning.” He held up a glossy photograph, his eyes locked onto my parents. “Is this your son?”

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My husband is a Novel Traveler. He doesn’t belong to this world. He was sent here by a “System” with a singular mission: to win the heart of the story’s secondary lead, Lydia. But the moment he arrived, he fell for me instead. I was the “Main Character” of this reality, and every time he felt a spark of love for me, the System punished him with a high-voltage electric shock. He had been shocked nine hundred and ninety-nine times for loving me. Then, I was kidnapped by a paramilitary insurgent group. I was electrocuted, held in a flooded cellar, and had iron spikes driven through my limbs. In the depths of my despair, I remembered a trick Arthur had taught me—a way to mentally bridge into his System interface. I connected. But instead of a rescue plan, I heard Arthur’s voice, cold and detached, talking to the System. “Host, how could you personally strike a deal with those terrorists?” the System’s mechanical voice crackled. “You’re letting them break her. She’s your wife.” “This trauma was written into Lydia’s arc,” Arthur replied, his voice like ice. “To save Lydia from this fate, I had no choice but to let June take her place.” “June is the protagonist. she has ‘plot armor.’ No matter how much they break her, she won’t die. Once this scenario is over, I’ll have enough points to stay in this world forever. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to her.” My heart didn’t just break; it shattered. As the men in the shadows moved toward me again, I stopped fighting. I let go. … “Damn, this one’s a prize,” one of them spat. At his signal, the cramped, humid room filled with shadows. I was pinned to a makeshift cot, long iron spikes driven through my hands and feet. The slightest twitch sent white-hot agony through my nervous system, let alone the brutal movements of the men. The bed groaned rhythmically. The stench of sweat, unwashed bodies, and cheap tobacco filled my lungs. Through the haze of pain and the sound of heavy breathing, I heard Arthur’s voice in my head again. “How many?” The System’s voice was trembling. “The eighth one just finished. Arthur, something is wrong. June’s vitals are dropping. Tell them to stop.” “No!” Arthur’s bark echoed in my mind. “In the original script, Lydia was assaulted ten times. If June is taking her place, the count has to be exact. Not one less.” The words felt like a plunge into a frozen lake. Two months ago, a lethal virus had broken out in this region—a strain so aggressive that victims rarely lasted seventy-two hours. As an infectious disease specialist, I had volunteered for the medical relief mission. Arthur had insisted on coming along, claiming he couldn’t bear the thought of me in danger. I actually believed he was protecting me. Now I realized he had been architecting this nightmare for two months. Another man entered. I felt nothing but a hollow, vibrating numbness. Suddenly, a sharp, cramping pain bloomed in my lower abdomen. It was different from the external wounds—a deep, visceral tearing. The man on top of me stopped abruptly, swearing in a local dialect. “What the hell is this?” Another man leaned over, his voice dropping an octave. “It’s a child. She’s miscarrying.” The room went silent. The weight lifted off me as the man scrambled back. Even these monsters, it seemed, had a limit when faced with the sight of a dying womb. My mind went blank. Tears, hot and silent, finally began to track through the dirt on my face. As a doctor, I knew. I had known for weeks. We had been married for three years. Every night, he wanted me. When I was too exhausted, he would wrap his arms around my waist and whisper that back in his “original world,” he was an orphan. His only dream was a family. Now that he had me, his only remaining wish was a child. I had spent months conditioning my body, taking vitamins, tracking cycles. Three months ago, I finally conceived. I hadn’t found the right moment to tell him before the insurgents raided our camp. “Host, that’s nine. No one else will touch her,” the System’s voice broke the silence in my mind. I realized the connection was still live. “Why not?” Arthur demanded, his voice impatient. The System’s mechanical tone held a note of genuine horror. “Because during the ninth encounter, June… she lost the baby.” “Don’t tell me the details! I can’t handle it!” Arthur roared, his voice thick with a performative kind of rage. “I’m telling you her condition is critical,” the System replied. Arthur went silent. For a heartbeat, I thought he might finally break character. I thought he might come for me. Then, he spoke, and the words sliced through whatever was left of my soul. “If the men won’t finish it, find a dog.” The System let out a sharp, digital gasp. “Host, this is too much. June has done nothing wrong. Why should she suffer Lydia’s destiny?” “You think she’s the only one suffering? My heart is dying with every second!” Arthur’s voice cracked with a twisted sense of martyrdom. “But what choice do I have? If Lydia doesn’t survive her ‘canon’ events, the story collapses and I’m pulled out of this world. One last time. Just one more trauma, then have them inject the viral sample. Then I can ‘rescue’ her and be the hero.” His voice faded like a dying wind. The door creaked open. When I saw the massive, half-starved hound they dragged in, I closed my eyes. Everything went exactly according to Arthur’s plan. When the weight finally left me, the room fell into a terrifying silence. I forced myself to look down. There, on the blood-slicked concrete, was a tiny, translucent shape. My baby. I dragged my broken limbs across the floor, the spikes grinding against the stone, until I could pull that tiny piece of myself into my arms. Grief didn’t just wash over me; it drowned me. Then, a shadow fell over the threshold. A man entered holding a syringe. He didn’t look at me as he slid the needle into my vein. The liquid was ice-cold. I’d spent three months studying this pathogen. I knew exactly what it was: the raw, concentrated viral strain, likely harvested from a fresh corpse. At this concentration, without the synthesized antidote, I would be dead within twenty-four hours. The irony was that I had already developed the antidote. I just hadn’t published the findings yet. I thought the insurgents had taken me for my research. Now I knew the truth. This was all for Lydia. Arthur had once told me he was sent to “save” her. After we married, he was always “helping” her, trying to nudge her fate. I used to pick fights about it. He would always look at me with those puppy-dog eyes and say, “June, she means nothing to me. I’m only doing this for our future.” Our future. The door was kicked open with a thunderous crash. Seconds later, I was pulled into a tight, trembling embrace. The scent of Arthur’s expensive cologne—sandalwood and citrus—hit me. It used to be the smell of safety. Now, it made my skin crawl. “June! Oh god, June, I’m here. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry you went through this.” I let him hold me. I stared over his shoulder with dead eyes, my heart a blackened husk of rage. I forced my voice to sound thin and fragile. “Arthur… you have the System. Why did it take so long?” He stiffened. “The interface… it glitched. It’s all my fault. But don’t worry, honey. I don’t care about what happened here. I don’t think you’re ‘dirty.’ I’ll heal you. We’re going to a hospital right now.” He draped his designer suit jacket over my broken, bloodied body. As he lifted me, he hissed to his armed guards, “Leave no one alive.” I was rushed to the field hospital. My colleagues, seeing me in that state, were horrified. Even the most battle-hardened trauma surgeons gasped when they saw the spikes. They pulled twenty-four iron nails out of my body. After the surgery, I was moved to a private ward. I’ve always had a high tolerance for anesthesia; I was awake, but I kept my eyes squeezed shut. I couldn’t bear to look at him. I listened as the nurses whispered to him about my injuries. Arthur played the part of the grieving, devoted husband perfectly. He stroked my cheek, whispering, “June, I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” In another life, I would have wept with gratitude. Now, I just felt a surge of bile in my throat. A few hours later, the door clicked open. A voice I loathed drifted in. “Arthur. I’m here.” Lydia. “Inject the sedative now,” Arthur said, his voice dropping the grieving-husband act. “The jet is ready. You can be back in the States in two hours.” Lydia stepped closer. I heard the rustle of her silk blouse. “Arthur, come with me. Please.” “I have to stay and look after June for a bit,” he replied. “But I’m scared,” she pouted, her voice honey-sweet and manipulative. “It’s so dangerous here.” Arthur paused. “Fine. I’ll come.” He had always told me he felt nothing for her. Yet he never said no. He never used a harsh tone with her. I used to tell myself he was just “playing the game” for the System. I was done lying to myself. Arthur stepped out to finalize the flight manifest. Lydia walked over to my bed. She didn’t offer comfort. Instead, she pressed a manicured finger into my surgical incision. “Stop faking,” she hissed. I opened my eyes and looked at her. She sneered. “Look at you, June. Ten men? I heard the stories. How do you even have the nerve to still be breathing?” I forced a cold smile. “Even so, Arthur isn’t divorcing me to marry you, is he?” Her face contorted. “So what? He’s already disgusted by you. Do you know why he sent me in here?” She leaned down, her breath smelling of peppermint. “He knows you don’t respond to standard anesthesia. He told me to inject you with a heavy-duty sedative so you’ll sleep through the next few hours. While you’re out, he’s going to announce that my team discovered the cure for the virus. Your cure.” “What?” My heart hammered against my ribs. That antidote was the result of twenty people working twenty-hour shifts for months. It was our legacy. For many of my junior doctors, it was their only ticket out of poverty and into prestigious fellowships. “How dare you,” I wheezed, trying to sit up. Lydia didn’t bother arguing. She pulled a syringe from her bag and jammed it into my IV line. “June, from today on, everything that was yours belongs to me. Including Arthur.” The drug Lydia gave me didn’t work the way she wanted. Within an hour, I was jolted awake by a searing fever. The room was empty. Arthur and Lydia were gone. A colleague, Becca, was checking my vitals. She looked like she’d been crying. “Where is he?” I asked. “Arthur went to the airport,” Becca said, biting her lip. “Dr. Valentine… the test results came back. You’ve been infected with the concentrated strain.” I nodded slowly. “I know. I thought… I thought Arthur gave me the antidote when we arrived.” Becca’s face went pale. “There is no antidote left in the hospital, June. As soon as the ‘official’ announcement was made, all the stock was packed up and moved to the capital for the press junket. We don’t have a single vial here.” The world tilted. Without the serum, I was a dead woman walking. “There’s a flight to the capital in an hour,” Becca said urgently. She and two orderlies helped me into a wheelchair and rushed me to the airport. But when we got there, the commercial airline refused to board me. “Too high risk,” the gate agent said. “We can’t have a Bio-Level 4 patient on a commercial craft.” Desperate, Becca spotted Arthur’s private jet on the tarmac. He used it to fly in supplies—and to visit me. She ran toward him as he stood by the boarding stairs. She explained everything. She begged him to take me to the capital—a twenty-minute flight—to get the medicine. Arthur didn’t even look at the ambulance idling nearby. He checked his watch. “I’m taking Lydia home. I don’t have time for this.” Becca was stunned. “But June is dying! She’s your wife!” Arthur frowned, looking annoyed. “Stop the drama, Rebecca. I saw Lydia give her the injection myself.” He looked past the crowd, catching my eye for a fleeting second. “June, I know you’re jealous. But this isn’t the time for a stunt. I’ll come back for you after I drop Lydia off. Just wait for me.” He turned and walked up the stairs, Lydia trailing behind him. My heart felt like it was being physically crushed. I knew he was “misunderstanding” on purpose. He wanted me out of the way for the press conference. But I was actually dying. “Arthur!” I screamed, the effort tearing at my throat. He paused at the door of the plane. “Please,” I sobbed. “Just take me to the city. I want to live. I don’t want to die.” For a second, his mask slipped. A flicker of genuine pain crossed his eyes. He took a step back down the stairs. Then Lydia let out a sharp cry and collapsed onto the cabin floor. Arthur’s instincts—or the System’s programming—kicked in. He dove toward her, scooping her up. The last thing he said before the cabin door hissed shut was: “You’ll be fine, June. I’ll be back.” The engines roared. The jet climbed into the sky, taking my last hope with it. I watched the silver speck vanish into the clouds. A strange calm washed over me. The pressure in my chest became unbearable. I opened my mouth to breathe, but only blood came out. “Blood! She’s hemorrhaging!” Becca screamed. They tried to resuscitate me right there on the terminal floor. But we all knew it was over. With my last ounce of strength, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, blood-stained handkerchief containing the remains of my child, and a digital recorder. I pressed them into Becca’s hands. “Give these… to Arthur,” I whispered. In that final moment, a voice echoed in the void—not Arthur’s, but the System’s. [Notice: Primary Female Lead has been terminated. Recalibrating… New Female Lead: Lydia Mercer.]

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I was Hudson’s paid lookalike. His contracted distraction. While he used my body to kill time, I lay beneath him and thought of someone else. Right up until the day Hudson supposedly flew out of state to comfort his untouchable first love. I logged into my burner account and saw a message from a guy I only knew by his screen name, Nomad: [I want to see you.] I took a breath, steeled my nerves, and agreed to meet him. I was ready to finally sever my ties to the past. But when I pulled open my front door at the exact time we’d agreed upon… Standing on the other side of the threshold was Hudson—the man who was supposed to be halfway across the country. He arched an eyebrow at me, a dark, playful smirk playing on his lips. “What’s wrong?” he murmured. “Waiting for your internet crush, but got me instead?” 1 My relationship with Hudson was, at its core, painfully simple: he wanted my face, and I wanted his money. As for why my face specifically caught the attention of a New York tech billionaire? It’s the oldest cliché in the book. Hudson was haunted by the ghost of a girl he couldn’t have. Margot. Hollywood’s current A-list darling. And I happen to look a good seventy percent like her. I even used to be her body double on set. But Margot had a high school sweetheart she’d been dating for eight solid years; they were Hollywood’s golden couple, completely impenetrable. So, Hudson had to settle for the next best thing. He plucked me out of absolute obscurity. When he formally offered to make me his “kept woman,” his lawyer slid a non-disclosure and lifestyle agreement across the mahogany table that was thicker than my college thesis. But boiled down, it really only had three rules: One, don’t ask questions. Two, be available whenever he calls. Three, never cling. I followed them religiously. Not because I had some profound sense of professional integrity as a sugar baby, but mainly because my heart was already occupied. Nomad. A guy I met on an anonymous forum. At the time, Hudson had just hired me. My pride was in tatters, the brutal reality of the contract sitting heavy on my chest. I had bowed to the almighty dollar, and I felt suffocated by it. Late one night, scrolling mindlessly through Reddit, I stumbled upon a post Nomad had written about traveling to Iceland alone to see the Northern Lights. His prose was breathtakingly good. He wrote about isolation with a tenderness that made my chest ache. Like a ghost guiding my hand, I sent him a private message: [You write beautifully.] He replied almost instantly: [Thanks. That cat in your profile picture is pretty chunky.] I couldn’t help but brag: [He’s a rescue. I adopted him.] And just like that, we started talking. Hudson kept me for over two years, and I talked to Nomad for over two years. I sent Nomad texts about my 3:00 AM insomnia. I sent him pictures of the incredible greasy diner downstairs, and the oak tree outside my window that budded in the spring and went stark bald in the winter. He never sent a photo of himself. He only ever sent one sixty-second audio clip. When I pressed play, it was just the roaring, crackling sound of howling wind. “The wind in Iceland,” his voice murmured through the static. I played that goddamn audio clip thirty-seven times on a loop. 2 And then there was Hudson. How do I even explain Hudson? He was a bizarre anomaly in the world of wealthy benefactors. He wasn’t the ice-cold, domineering alpha billionaire you read about in airport paperbacks. During our late-night arrangements, while I was literally lying naked in his bed, he would suddenly ask: “What do you think of this pajama shirt? Does it make my shoulders look weird?” I’d say, “No.” He’d sigh. “You didn’t even look. You’re just saying no.” I searched for a polite excuse. “Hudson, you’re currently pinning me to the mattress. My field of vision is a little restricted.” He paused, considered this, and decided it was a valid point. He deliberately pulled me up by the waist, sitting me right in front of him so I could get a good look. I stared at him with excruciating patience for thirty seconds. “Okay, yeah. It does.” He went entirely silent out of sheer indignation. He ripped the pajama shirt off, exposing his ridiculously sculpted abs. I had no choice but to reach out and comfort his bruised ego. He caught my hand, pinned it, and ended up keeping me awake the entire night until my lower back throbbed. The next day, a substantial bonus hit my bank account. I understood the game. Overtime required overtime pay. When your boss occasionally short-circuits, you don’t complain; you just cash the check. He used my body to search for the shadow of someone else, and I lay beneath him dreaming of the wind in Iceland. He used me as a distraction. I used him as a magic lamp. Whenever my bank account ran low, I just gave him a rub. Fair trade. Everyone got what they needed. 3 I stepped out of the steaming shower, towel-drying my hair. Hudson was leaning against the tufted headboard, scrolling through his tablet. We used to live separately. I had my cramped Brooklyn studio; he had his sprawling Manhattan penthouse. Usually, whenever he saw a billboard with Margot’s face on it and felt a sudden pang of nostalgic longing, he’d call his trusty stand-in. Sometimes just a text. I’d take the subway to his place. Once, he called me at three in the morning. I assumed he was deep in the throes of a late-night emotional crisis, shedding tears into his silk sheets over his lost love. I rushed over. He wanted me to help him pick out new bedroom curtains. “Charcoal or slate grey?” It was 4:00 AM. I was standing in his massive bedroom, dead on my feet, staring at two identical squares of fabric. “Charcoal,” I mumbled. “Why?” “Hides the dirt.” He tilted his head, thinking it over. “Solid logic.” I turned around, eyes completely shut, navigating by pure muscle memory toward the front door, and nearly crashed right into his chest. Hudson caught me by the waist. He opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to say something. But I had already rested my cheek against his sternum, found a comfortable groove, and passed out instantly. That was the first time I ever slept at his apartment without engaging in any sort of physical transaction. The next morning, I was still buried under the duvet, dreaming of soaking in a geothermal lagoon in Iceland, when my landlord called. “Fallon, honey,” she said. “My son is getting married and he needs the apartment. I’ll refund your deposit, but you need to find a new place. Your boyfriend already packed up all your stuff and moved it out.” I just lay there, my brain stalling for a solid minute. “Brenda… didn’t you tell me last month that your son couldn’t even get a date to save his life?” “Oh, he found someone!” she chirped. “A Vegas wedding. Very sudden.” I opened my eyes. Hudson had just walked into the bedroom. He was carrying several cardboard boxes and a squirming cat. My entire worldly possessions. I had never allowed Hudson to visit my apartment. I preferred to keep our cold, transactional relationship strictly within the confines of his penthouse. I didn’t want to bring my work home with me. Well, now my work was my home. 4 I obediently crawled into the center of the massive bed. My cat, Smudge, who had been perfectly content lounging in Hudson’s lap, immediately jumped off the mattress to go shred the brand-new charcoal curtains. Hudson had never been to my apartment. So why my cat acted like Hudson was his long-lost father was entirely beyond me. As soon as I lay down, Hudson suddenly spoke. “Come here.” I turned to look at him. He patted the empty space beside him. “Closer.” I shimmied over. “Lower your head,” he instructed. I dropped my chin. The next second, the nozzle of a matte-black Dyson hairdryer was pointed directly at my face. “…” “Your hair is soaked,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’ll wake up with a migraine if you sleep on it like that.” I stared at him. He stared at me. I was mostly just wondering where the hell he had been hiding a full-sized hairdryer. He couldn’t have been holding a cat, reading corporate files on his iPad, and hiding a Dyson under the duvet all at once. He clicked it on, and a rush of warm air hit me. Hudson was surprisingly good at this. His long fingers combed smoothly through my wet strands, occasionally brushing my scalp. It tingled. I kept my eyes fixed on the buttons of his pajama shirt. One. Two. Three. “Hudson.” “Hmm?” “Have you dried someone else’s hair before?” His fingers paused in my hair for a fraction of a second. “No.” “Then how are you so good at it?” “I watched a tutorial.” Well then. I suppose being a body double had its perks—I was getting the premium, customized service the sugar daddy had been practicing for someone else. I generously gave him a five-star review: “Your technique is incredibly professional. Your future wife is going to love it.” Hudson didn’t say another word. 5 It wasn’t that I was actively trying to ruin the mood. It was just that the very first time Hudson brought me to one of his social circles, his best friend, Chase, had pulled me aside with genuine pity in his eyes. He told me about the untouchable first love. Chase told me that a framed still from Margot’s breakout indie film sat squarely on Hudson’s study desk. That was the moment I understood exactly why Hudson had chosen me out of the lineup. Logically, I should have figured it out sooner. But Hudson’s particular brand of attentiveness was dangerously deceptive. Even when it’s written in black and white that your relationship is a paid sham, you can still catch traces of a gentleness that exists outside the contract. It makes you foolishly believe you hold a special place in his world. In college, an injury destroyed my dancing career. A scout saw me crying in a diner and told me I had the face for Hollywood. A year later, a sleazy producer told me that if I slept with him, he’d make me a star. Young, arrogant, and foolishly proud, I threw my vodka soda directly into his greasy face. And just like that, I was blacklisted. No fame, no auditions. I scraped the bottom of the barrel until I finally landed a gig on a massive studio set—as Margot’s stunt and lighting double. Life really is just a poorly written script. I used to be a physical stand-in; now I was a professional emotional one. I wasn’t heartbroken. I was just thrilled to have a job with solid job security and zero competition. “You guys are best friends,” I heard myself say to Chase back then, my voice remarkably steady. “If he finds out you told me this, he’s going to be pissed.” Chase crushed his cigarette under his shoe, looking utterly righteous. “That’s exactly why I’m telling you while he’s at the bar.” He wanted me to know my place. Take the money, but guard my heart. I downed the rest of my champagne in one gulp. “Chase, you’re a good man.” By the time Hudson found us on the terrace, Chase was drunkenly sobbing into my shoulder. “Fallon, stop friend-zoning me, my heart can’t take it anymore, man… sob…” The next second, Hudson’s hand clamped onto my arm, yanking me out of Chase’s tearful embrace. He scooped me up effortlessly into his arms, his grip around my waist tight and possessive. “Done playing around?” His voice was absolute ice. “We’re going home.” I rested my chin on his shoulder. Looking past him, I saw Chase struggling to sit up, tears still streaking his flushed face. I gave him a little wave. Hudson’s footsteps stopped dead. His arm tightened around me like a vice. He lowered his head, his lips hovering mere millimeters from my ear. “Look at him one more time, and I guarantee you aren’t sleeping tonight.” I didn’t believe the threat. I had seen how much scotch he threw back at the bar. The internet said guys had performance issues when they drank that much. 6 I woke up the next morning drenched in sweat. Mainly because a human furnace was plastered to my back. Hudson’s heavy arm was slung across my waist, his breath ghosting over the nape of my neck, one of his legs thrown heavily over mine. Back when our interactions were strictly nocturnal and purely physical, I didn’t think much of it. But ever since I was forced to move in, Hudson had undergone a bizarre personality shift. He suddenly loved simply sharing a blanket, holding hands, and sleeping. It was putting immense pressure on me as a professional contractor. This was a workplace hazard I did not have the experience to navigate. I braced myself and tried to inch my body toward the edge of the mattress. His arm tightened. I shimmied again. He tightened his grip further. I took a deep breath, preparing to utilize my dancer’s flexibility to slide out from under him like a greased eel. “Don’t move.” His voice was thick and gravelly with sleep, his lips brushing directly against the sensitive skin of my neck. I froze. Because I was suddenly hyper-aware of something pressing against my lower back that I really shouldn’t be feeling this early in the morning. “Hudson.” “Mmm.” “You’re poking me.” He was quiet for two full seconds. Then, I felt him start to laugh. The deep, rumbling vibration of his chest against my spine sent a shiver down my arms. “I know.” “…” When I didn’t say anything, he gently bit my earlobe. “You little menace.” I tried to hold my tongue, but failed. “I’m not a menace. Please don’t give me a negative performance review for no reason.” A boss like this was terrible for an employee’s mental health. Thank God I compartmentalized. He propped himself up on one elbow to look down at me. His dark hair was a messy bedhead halo, his eyelids slightly puffy from sleep. He looked nothing like a ruthless tech mogul. He stared at me, his eyes silently accusing me of ruining a perfectly romantic moment. I stared right back, silently reminding him that we do not catch feelings on company time. Finally, I heard him take a sharp intake of breath. He threw the covers back and marched toward the master bathroom, bare-chested. The scratches I had left on his back last week were almost completely healed. I hadn’t exactly had the opportunity to add new ones recently. From the back, he looked a little sulky. Maybe even a little rejected. He stopped halfway across the rug and looked over his shoulder at me. “What do you want for lunch?” I blinked. “What?” “Lunch,” he enunciated. “To eat.” Lately, Hudson had been utterly obsessed with having me eat lunch with him. Sometimes he’d book a reservation at a Michelin-starred spot; other times I was required to carry a packed lunch to his corporate headquarters. Hudson was an incredible cook. He prepped and plated the gourmet bento boxes himself. I was literally just the delivery driver for my own lunch. As far as I was concerned, as long as the direct deposits kept clearing, I’d deliver whatever he wanted. I just couldn’t fathom why he didn’t just take the damn food with him when he left for work in the morning. Why force his sugar baby to parade through his corporate lobby just to drop it off? The only logical explanation was that the ultra-rich were completely unhinged. I batted my eyelashes at him. “Whatever you make, I’ll love it.” Hudson leaned down and kissed me. It was deep, slow, and devastatingly reverent. “Can you promise to love it forever?” 7 All I can say is, nothing in this world lasts forever. After Hudson left for the office, I sat at the kitchen island eating my breakfast. I suddenly remembered my burner account—the one I used to message Nomad—which I hadn’t checked in ages. Ever since I moved in with Hudson, my screen time had plummeted. For a busy billionaire CEO, Hudson had a terrifying amount of energy. He’d come home and drag me out to grocery shop, cook, watch indie films, listen to vinyls, drink wine, and play video games. My schedule was packed tighter than a diplomat’s. A teenager in the honeymoon phase of his first relationship wouldn’t be this clingy. As soon as I logged in, a message popped up. Nomad: [Been busy lately?] Timestamp: Two weeks ago. Me: [A little.] Nomad replied instantly: [Rest if you’re tired.] I had never told Nomad I was a paid mistress. I just vaguely referred to it as my “job.” It was a pathetic lie I told myself to preserve my dignity. Me: [Can’t rest. Gotta grind.] Nomad: [Didn’t you say your boss was actually a decent guy?] Me: [You can’t just look at the present.] Nomad: [What do you mean?] Me: [My performance reviews are fine for now, but you never know when the boss will get sick of me and decide to downsize my position.] My current job offered zero upward mobility, and the expiration date was always looming. For this particular role, Hudson always had a more qualified candidate in his heart. I had to be ready to pack my bags and vacate the premises at a moment’s notice. It took Nomad a long time to reply: [Why would you think that?] I typed out my ultimate corporate wisdom: [Always have an exit strategy.] My workplace paranoia was validated before noon. A massive headline detonated across Twitter and the gossip blogs. #A-ListDarlingMargotBetrayed #BoyfriendCaughtCheating #MargotSpottedCryingInLA #EightYearsDownTheDrain I hadn’t even finished reading the article when my phone buzzed. It was Hudson. “Fallon, baby. Are you at the office yet?” “Not yet.” “Something urgent came up at work. I have to fly out to Atlanta for a few days.” “Okay.” “Make sure you’re eating properly while I’m gone.” “I know.” “Wait for me to get back.” I didn’t say anything. He repeated it, his voice tight. “Wait for me.” “Okay,” I whispered. I hung up the phone and tipped my head back, looking up at the towering glass skyscraper in front of me. What floor was his corner office on again? I was just a tiny ant on the pavement. He couldn’t see me from up there. A cold drop of rain hit my cheek. The sky opened up. Clutching the insulated lunchbox, I turned and walked away in the downpour. 8 Late that night, I tossed and turned in the center of the massive king-sized bed. Hudson claimed it was a business emergency. But the timing of this sudden trip out of state? Even an idiot could put two and two together. I had seen the tracking updates on the gossip blogs that afternoon. Margot was currently filming a new movie down in Atlanta. Hudson was flying a thousand miles through a thunderstorm to rush to her side. Honestly? It was incredibly romantic. Even if the man was completely morally bankrupt—keeping one woman in his house while harboring another in his heart. But he had been unfailingly generous with his money, and surprisingly, with his emotional care. He treated a cheap stand-in with such meticulous, tender devotion that you could almost fool yourself into thinking it was real. That was why I had to constantly remind myself: do not fall for his gentleness. The prettier the illusion, the deadlier the trap. I had no right to judge Hudson. He wasn’t some villain threatening Margot’s career to force her into his bed, and he never tried to be the other man while she was happy. He simply waited in the wings, rushing in to offer his shoulder the moment her heart broke. It was just a transaction. I sincerely wished him the best. As for the final clause in my contract—never cling—I was prepared to exhibit flawless professional etiquette. I would quietly evaporate from his life. I wouldn’t cause a single ripple of drama on his journey to win back his true love. I stared at my chat history with Nomad. The last message had come through that morning. He said: [I want to see you.] I want to see you. I stared at those five words for a very long time. Long enough for the phone screen to dim, go black, and be tapped awake again. Over and over. I typed: [Okay.] Then I sent a second text: [Tomorrow. The Astor Residences. 3:00 PM.] It was Hudson’s address. He was supposed to be gone for a week. I figured I’d borrow the lobby. I didn’t actually want to meet Nomad at Hudson’s apartment, but since my old landlord had evicted me, I literally didn’t have anywhere else in the city to go. 9 When the doorbell chimed, I had just finished taping up my last moving box. Compared to the deliberately sparse belongings I had in my old studio, my possessions had multiplied like a virus since living with Hudson. My closets were overflowing with dresses, jewelry, and shoes—all things Hudson bought because he “thought I’d like them.” I wasn’t taking any of it. It would all end up exactly like me: discarded in the trash the moment he was done with it. Three o’clock exactly. Punctual guy. I took a deep, shaky breath, and pulled open the heavy oak door. Hudson stood in the hallway. He smelled like jet fuel, rain, and exhaustion. In one hand, he was holding a canvas grocery tote. A bundle of crisp celery and onions peeked out from the top. We stared at each other. My mind went entirely, violently blank. Internet crush. Meetup. My doorstep. Sugar daddy.

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My sister went home with her boyfriend every single night, yet she never once worried about birth control. When I finally asked her why, her answer made my blood run cold. She was using “the back door”—a desperate, reckless loophole to preserve her technical virginity. I tried to warn her. I told her that the body wasn’t designed for that kind of constant trauma, that she was courting infection and permanent damage. I told her that in this day and age, a man who truly loved her wouldn’t care about a piece of tissue or a “pure” status. In my first life, she actually listened. She stopped. But later, after she and that boyfriend broke up, our mother orchestrated a match with a billionaire’s heir. On their wedding night, because there was no “bloom on the sheets,” the groom turned on her instantly. By the next morning, the scandal was the talk of every high-society gala in the city. Ruined and humiliated, my sister didn’t blame the man or our mother’s archaic obsession. She blamed me. She pinned me down, her face twisted with a primal, jagged hatred, and forced my head into a pot of screaming, boiling water. “It’s your fault,” she hissed as the steam scorched my lungs. “If I were still ‘pure,’ I’d be the queen of this city. No one would be laughing at me!” Then, the world went black. When I opened my eyes, I was back on that humid afternoon, sitting on the velvet sofa, listening to her brag about her secret for the very first time. … “Jade, seriously, stop worrying. I’m not going to get pregnant. Every time I’m with Kyle, we… well, we stay off the main road, if you know what I mean.” Bridget shifted on the cushion, a playful, cat-like smirk on her lips. Looking at her face, I felt a phantom surge of agony, the memory of boiling water scalding my throat. It took every ounce of my willpower to keep my hands from shaking. I took a slow breath and forced a smile. “Wow,” I whispered. “That’s… actually really clever of you.” Bridget leaned in, eager to play the mentor. “I’m telling you, Jade, a man can get just as much pleasure that way. You can’t keep listening to Mom’s ‘Victorian Era’ lectures. It’s the twenty-first century. Chasing the high is all that matters.” She paused, her eyes scanning my plain sweater with pity. “Maybe that’s why you can’t keep a boyfriend. You’re too repressed.” I just smiled. The only reason Bridget was acting so smug was that Kyle, her current flame, was my ex. We had been together for two years. He broke up with me because I refused to sleep with him before I felt ready. Three days after the breakup, he and Bridget went public on Instagram. It wasn’t until I went to Kyle’s apartment to pack the last of my things that I realized they had been hooking up long before we ended. The neighbors told me they could hear Bridget’s theatrics from two floors away. At the time, my first instinct wasn’t even anger—it was fear. I was terrified of what would happen if Mom found out. Our father died young, leaving Diane—our mother—to raise us alone. She was a “Social Consultant” for the ultra-wealthy, a high-end matchmaker who navigated the complex waters of old-money families. Dealing with that echelon of society had hardened her. She knew exactly what those men looked for in a wife. To them, “purity” wasn’t a moral virtue; it was a luxury brand. “Marriage is your second chance at birth,” Mom used to say, her voice like cold steel. “These men might talk about being progressive, but in their hearts, they want a woman who hasn’t been touched. Don’t you dare lower your market value, or don’t bother calling me Mother.” In my previous life, I had spent days agonized over whether to tell Mom about Bridget’s behavior. But when I’d confronted Bridget, she’d laughed and told me she was still a “virgin” because of her little workaround. Back then, I had been a fool. I was worried about her health. As someone with a nursing degree, I knew the risks. I knew the muscles back there weren’t meant for that kind of repetitive, violent strain. I knew about the potential for incontinence, the tearing, the permanent scarring. I had given her a lecture on anatomy. I had told her, “Someone who loves you won’t ask you to hurt yourself. If you want to explore your sexuality, do it the right way. If a man cares about a hymen, he’s not worth it—and even if it mattered that much, there are surgeries for that.” Bridget’s eyes had lit up at the mention of surgery. She had changed her habits immediately. But then came the billionaire’s son. Even with the surgery, the “evidence” wasn’t there on the wedding night. And when the marriage imploded, she decided it was my advice that had ruined her life. This time, I looked at her and felt nothing but a cold, hollow space where my sisterly love used to be. “But doesn’t that… hurt?” I asked, feigning concern. “I’ve heard it can cause real damage. Infections, tearing…” Bridget rolled her eyes, golden highlights catching the light. “Not if you’re careful. Besides, Jade, I think I’m just built differently. Kyle says I’m like a siren. I even get… ‘wet’ back there.” I knew Kyle was lying to her. That area doesn’t have secretory glands. If there was fluid, it meant one thing: inflammation. Or worse. The realization gave me a dark, flicking sense of satisfaction. “Is that why Kyle is so obsessed with you?” I asked, looking down as if I were envious. Meanwhile, under the coffee table, I opened a burner account on an adult boutique site. I found Kyle’s profile—he was a frequent browser of “specialty” toys. I sent him a direct message from the shop’s account: [Hey handsome, looking for some new gear? Disguised shipping, top-tier quality.] Bridget noticed my “sadness” and her ego puffed up. She had always loved stealing things from me—clothes, attention, boyfriends. “Of course it is. But don’t get any ideas, Jade. You’re not the type. Kyle has tasted the best now; he’d never go back to someone as vanilla as you. You should probably just move on.” I lowered my head, playing the part of the defeated sister perfectly. My phone buzzed. Kyle had replied. He was interested in some of the more… aggressive, oversized equipment. I recommended a few “heavy-duty” items, processed his payment, and placed the order for local same-day delivery. A moment later, Bridget’s phone chimed. She looked at the screen and her face went scarlet. She stood up abruptly, grabbing her Prada bag. “Anyway, I have to go. Kyle’s waiting. And remember—not a word to Mom.” Bridget didn’t come home that night. When she crawled back the next morning, she walked with a pronounced, gingerly limp. Over the next week, Kyle became my best customer on the burner account. He ordered increasingly “experimental” toys. And every day, Bridget’s posture became more distorted, her face paler. I knew she couldn’t take much more of this. I just didn’t realize how quickly the breaking point would come. On a rainy Saturday, Bridget grabbed my arm, her voice a trembling whisper. “Jade… I think I’m torn. I’m bleeding.” I kept my voice flat, clinical. “Where?” “You know where.” She looked around frantically, then locked the bedroom door. She dropped her leggings, and I had to suppress a gag. It was a mess of bruising and raw tissue. “Should I go to the hospital?” she sobbed. “Every time I sneeze, I… I can’t hold it in. Things just… leak.” The revulsion was almost physical now. “The hospital?” I frowned. “Do you want Mom to find out? You know she has friends in every clinic in the city. If she hears her ‘perfect daughter’ has been doing this, she’ll disown you before the lab results are in.” Mom had been getting suspicious lately because of Bridget’s frequent absences. “Then what do I do?” Bridget cried. I shrugged. “It doesn’t look that bad. Just go to a pharmacy, get some over-the-counter cream and some heavy-duty pads. Just keep it quiet.” She was too embarrassed to even go to a clinic. She ended up ordering random ointments online, slathering herself in chemicals that probably only made the inflammation worse. Once the initial pain subsided, she went right back to Kyle. But the damage was done. The muscles were shot. And then, she started to smell. A faint, unmistakable scent of rot and waste that she tried to drown in expensive Chanel perfume. Finally, the day arrived. Mom burst through the door, her face glowing with the kind of predatory joy she only felt when a massive commission was in sight. “Bridget! Get dressed. We’re going to dinner with the Steven-Vane family. Their son, Pierce, is home from London. He’s a billionaire twice over in his own right, Ivy League, and perfectly disciplined.” Mom patted Bridget’s cheek, oblivious to the way her daughter winced. “He has only one requirement for a wife: she must be ‘untarnished.’ Bridget, your golden ticket is finally here.” I expected Bridget to jump at it. In my last life, she had. But this time, she turned pale. “Mom… I can’t.” Mom and I both froze. “What do you mean ‘no’?” Mom’s voice dropped an octave, dangerous and low. “Marriage is a business, Bridget. You’ve complained your whole life that I didn’t give you enough. Well, here is the world on a silver platter.” Bridget folded her arms over her stomach. “I have a boyfriend. I love Kyle.” “Break up with him,” Mom snapped. “Wait… you didn’t, did you? You didn’t let that low-life touch you?” Bridget’s face went white. “No! Of course not, Mom. I’m just… I’m not ready to get married. Why don’t you send Jade? Let her go to the dinner.” Mom turned to me, her gaze sweeping over me with pure, unadulterated disdain. “Jade? Do you think she’s even in his league? She’d be a charity case.” The words stung like a needle to the heart. It wasn’t new, but the casual cruelty of it never stopped hurting. Mom treated me like a prisoner of war; she treated Bridget like a prize thoroughbred. If I didn’t finish my homework, she’d shred my books. If Bridget didn’t finish hers, she got a gentle reminder. If I broke a dish, I was forced to kneel on the cold kitchen tiles for hours. If Bridget broke one, it was just an accident. I used to wonder if I was even her biological child. I’d even done a DNA test in secret once I turned eighteen. The results were clear: I was hers. In my previous life, as I lay dying from the boiling water, Mom hadn’t even looked at my mangled face. She had only reached out to check if Bridget’s hands were burnt. I’d used my last breath to ask why she hated me so much. She’d looked at me with boredom. “I don’t hate you. You’re just sensitive and small-minded. Bridget never complains about my ‘favoritism.’ Maybe the problem is you.” But I knew the real reason. Bridget was beautiful. Beauty was a resource, a currency. Mom had bet everything on Bridget’s face, and she wasn’t about to let her investment go to waste. Despite her fury, Mom didn’t force the issue that night. She couldn’t risk Bridget showing up to a dinner looking miserable. But she didn’t want the opportunity to slip away. So, she dragged me to see Pierce instead. “Don’t you dare mention your past dating life,” Mom hissed in the car. “You’re already starting at a disadvantage with those looks. If you act like a slut, he’ll smell it on you.” Sometimes I wondered if Mom was blind. Bridget was the one sneaking out every night, and I was the one who never missed a curfew, yet she still saw me as the “loose” one. Surprisingly, Pierce didn’t seem to care about my “average” looks. I’d had a bad impression of him in my last life because of the way he’d treated Bridget after the wedding night. But meeting him now, away from the drama, I realized he was actually… decent. Polished, well-traveled, and intelligent. His obsession with “purity” was purely a result of his family’s archaic expectations. He held himself to the same standard—he was a virgin himself, a rarity in his world. We actually clicked. We went on several dates. He was a gentleman. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if my rebirth wasn’t just about revenge. Maybe it was about a second chance at happiness. Maybe being with Pierce was the life I was supposed to have. But then, the hammer dropped. The moment Pierce asked to make things official and move toward an engagement, Bridget dumped Kyle. She saw Pierce’s photo on my phone. She saw the designer bags he’d bought me. And she decided she wanted him. One night, after a long “private talk” with Mom, the decision was made. The next morning, Mom sat me down. “You need to break up with Pierce. Bridget is going to be with him now.” It felt like a physical blow. “Are you serious? Is she actually pathological? She stole Kyle, and now that Pierce is actually a good man, she wants him too? Is she addicted to being the ‘other woman’ in my life?” Slap. The force of Mom’s hand sent my head spinning. “Bridget is your sister! How dare you speak of her like that? This match was always meant for her. You were just a placeholder. You’re the one who tried to steal what belonged to her.” My cheek burned, but the fire in my chest was hotter. That slap killed the last lingering shred of love I had for my mother. “Fine,” I spat, my voice trembling with rage. “If she wants him, she can try. But Pierce isn’t Kyle. He’s not a dog who follows whoever has the best treats.” I grabbed my bag and ran out of the house. I spent the day wandering the city, my mind a blur of past and present trauma. I told myself Pierce would stay loyal. He wasn’t like the others. But a few hours later, my phone rang. It was Pierce. “Jade,” he said, his voice sounding clipped, professional. “We need to end this.” The pain was so sharp I couldn’t breathe. “Why? Is it because of Bridget?” There was a long silence. Then, he spoke with the chilling pragmatism of his class. “Jade, you’re a smart woman. You know how this works. In my world, a wife is a reflection of her husband. Bridget is… well, she’s a masterpiece. If all other factors are equal, I’m going to choose the superior aesthetic.” “I’m sorry. I’ll send a settlement for your time. But please, don’t make this difficult. Let’s remain ‘friends.’” Friends. I hung up and smashed my phone against the pavement. I leaned against a brick wall and sobbed until my throat was raw. When I finally pulled myself together, I took out my backup tablet to start deleting the photos of us. I scrolled through the cloud, my eyes blurry. Then, I stopped. I saw a folder I hadn’t noticed before. Within minutes, my despair vanished, replaced by a cold, jagged smile. If they wanted to play this game, I’d make sure they felt every single move.

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The world ended in a fever of teeth and shadows. We called it the Collapse, the day the cities turned into graveyards and the living became the prey. My husband, Ryder, became a god among men. He awakened the “Overdrive” ability—a surge of raw, destructive power that turned him into a whirlwind of violence. But the cost was high: the power worked by tearing the user’s body apart at a cellular level, a self-destruct sequence in exchange for victory. I was his secret. I awakened a Dual-S class ability: The Anchor. I was immortal, and more importantly, I could siphon pain. As long as I was within fifty yards, I could pull every broken bone, every ruptured vessel, and every jagged bite from his body into my own. To keep him a hero, I stayed in his shadow. While he stood at the front, a golden warrior untouched by the carnage, I stood behind him, my skin splitting open, my lungs filling with blood he should have been coughing up. He didn’t know. Or perhaps, after a while, he chose to forget. He began to believe his own myth—that he was the Chosen One, invincible by divine right. And he began to loathe me, his “sickly” wife who was always pale, always trembling, always a reminder of weakness in a world that demanded strength. Then came the girl with the “Purifying Song.” A college student named Melody. To impress his new muse, he shoved me aside. “Get away from me, Nancy,” he’d snarled, his eyes full of disgust. “Your rot is starting to rub off on me.” But the moment he broke our connection, reality hit him like a freight train. A common zombie—a creature he usually decapitated by the dozens—grazed his arm with a stray claw. He let out a scream so primal, so pathetic, it sounded like a dying animal. For the first time in three years, Ryder realized that being bitten actually hurts. … The gates of the Haven Colony swung open to a roar of cheers. Ryder strode in, the severed head of an Alpha gripped in his hand, his chin held high. Not a single speck of dust marred his tactical gear. He looked like an action figure come to life. I was at the very back of the crowd, leaning against a rusted corrugated wall. I pressed a hand over my mouth, but the dark, copper-tasting blood leaked through my fingers anyway. My insides felt like they’d been put through a meat grinder. That was the price of Ryder’s “Stage Three Overdrive.” His muscles should have turned to jelly; his femurs should have snapped under the pressure of his own speed. But he was fine. Because I was his Anchor. I had swallowed his agony whole. “Ryder is unstoppable! Another zero-injury run!” “He’s literally made of steel!” Ryder basked in the adoration, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. When his eyes finally landed on me, they turned cold. He marched over, his brow furrowed in a deep, permanent scowl. “Still coughing up lungs in the corner? God, you’re depressing to look at.” I swallowed the metallic tang in my throat and forced a weak smile. “Ryder, you’re back. Are you… do you feel okay?” “Why wouldn’t I?” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh, looking down at me as if I were something he’d stepped in. “I’m the Chosen One, Nancy. I don’t get ‘tired.’ Maybe if you’d actually awakened a real power instead of just being a professional shut-in, you’d understand.” I looked down at the back of my hand. It was translucent, spider-webbed with blue veins. Even with my immortality, it hurt. Every time he went into Overdrive, it felt like I was being flayed alive, inch by agonizing inch. “Ryder, honey, don’t let her ruin the mood.” A sweet, melodic voice cut through the tension. Melody stepped forward, wearing a pristine white sundress that seemed impossible in this filth. She was the colony’s new darling. Her power was a “Purifying Song” that supposedly calmed the nerves and eased fatigue. Ryder’s expression softened instantly. He wrapped a heavy arm around Melody’s waist, pulling her close. “Hey, babe. Are you holding up okay?” Melody gave a modest little shake of her head, casting a pointed, triumphant look my way. “I’m fine. I’d sing for you all day if it kept you energized. Not like some people… but I guess poor health can’t be helped.” Ryder snorted. “She’s not sick, she’s lazy. Born with weak blood, I guess.” He turned back to Melody, ignoring me entirely. “Don’t waste your breath on her. There’s a victory feast tonight. You’re sitting right next to me.” As they walked away, the whispers started among the bystanders. “That’s his wife? She looks like a ghost.” “Pathetic. A god like Ryder tied down to a sickly anchor like that. He deserves better.” I slid down the wall, my legs giving out. The internal hemorrhaging was still settling. I fished a tattered bottle of oxycodone from my pocket—the only thing that kept me standing—and swallowed a pill dry. Bitter. It tasted like my life. It’s okay, I told myself. Five years ago, when the first fires broke out, a man in a scorched firefighter’s uniform had charged into a collapsing high-rise to pull me out. He had saved my life. I owed him everything. Even if he had changed, even if the power had corrupted his soul, I couldn’t forget the man who carried me through the smoke. As long as he was safe, I told myself it was enough. The next day, the Colony Council issued an S-Rank mission: clear the central grain silos. It was a suicide mission—a hive of thousands. Ryder insisted Melody come along as his “support.” I knew better. If Ryder hit his limit in that hive, the backlash would be exponential. Without me, he wouldn’t just be injured; he would liquefy. I quietly climbed into the back of the transport truck, hiding in the shadows of the gear crates. When Ryder spotted me, his face darkened. “What are you doing here? Looking for a place to die?” “I… I was worried,” I whispered. “Just don’t get in the way.” He didn’t kick me out, but he made sure Melody was comfortable, tucking a soft cushion behind her back and whispering jokes into her ear. The truck jolted over the ruined highway, each bump sent a shockwave through my healing ribs. Melody leaned into Ryder, hummed a soft, tuneless melody. “Does my song make you feel stronger, Ryder?” He closed his eyes, a blissful smile on his face. “Yeah, babe. It’s like magic. I feel zero tension. Not a single ache.” I pulled my knees to my chest and smiled bitterly. Of course he felt great. Because the bone-crushing pressure of his “passive” state was currently radiating through my spine. I was sweating through my shirt, but I didn’t make a sound. At the silos, the nightmare began. Ryder let out a war cry, his body erupting in a golden aura as he surged into Stage Two Overdrive. He was a human scythe, tearing through the undead with terrifying grace. Melody stood atop the armored vehicle, singing into a megaphone. “Go Ryder! You’re the best!” I crouched behind a pile of rubble nearby, biting down hard on a piece of leather. Crr-ack. As Ryder landed a devastating blow on a massive “Tank” zombie, a sharp snap echoed in my own right arm. My vision went black for a second. That was the kinetic kickback. It should have shattered his humerus. Instead, it was mine that broke. I writhed in the dirt, my nails clawing at the soil to keep from screaming. The battle lasted thirty minutes. When it was over, Ryder stood atop a mountain of corpses, howling at the sky like a conqueror. “I am a god!” The team cheered, swarming him with praise. Melody ran to him, handing him a bottle of water. “Ryder, that was incredible! You didn’t even get a scratch!” Ryder laughed, pulling her into a sweaty kiss. “It was your song, Melody. Kept me feeling fresh as a daisy!” Nobody looked at the corner of the ruins. Nobody saw me clutching my limp right arm, my face the color of ash, my hair matted with cold sweat. I struggled to my feet, wanting to check if he had any internal micro-fractures I needed to pull. As I stumbled forward, a soldier bumped into me, nearly knocking me over. “Whoa, watch it, Nancy. You look like a zombie yourself. Creepy.” Ryder looked over, his jaw tightening. “Nancy, seriously? Can you stop being an eyesore for five minutes? Everyone’s celebrating, and you’re over there looking like death warmed over.” I held my broken arm, the pain making it hard to breathe. “Ryder… my arm…” “What about it? Scratched it on a rock while you were hiding?” He sneered. “You’re a real piece of work. Stop faking for attention and get in the truck. We’re leaving.” He turned back to Melody, his voice turning like honey. “Melody, you must be exhausted. I’ll have the cook make you something special tonight.” I watched his back, my heart feeling like it had been dipped in liquid nitrogen. All my pain was just “faking” to him. All my sacrifice was worth less than a few off-key notes from a girl in a white dress. Back at the base, my arm was swollen to twice its size. I set the bone myself, letting my immortality knit the tissue back together. I could heal, but I couldn’t stop the feeling of the nerves screaming. That night, the rations were distributed. It was a good haul, so everyone got a piece of real meat and a bowl of hot rice. I dragged my battered body to the line. When I reached the front, the woman serving the food looked at me and tilted the ladle, giving me half a bowl of watery starch. “Where’s the protein?” I asked quietly. She rolled her eyes. “Captain Ryder said you don’t work, so you don’t eat the heavy stuff. Waste of resources. Your portion went to Miss Melody’s golden retriever.” I froze. A dog? I had broken my arm for him. I had endured thirty minutes of torture for him. And I was worth less than a pet. I took my watery soup and turned to leave. “Oh, hey Nancy.” Melody was walking by, leading a well-fed golden retriever on a leash. The dog was chewing on a thick marrow bone. Melody gave a dainty little giggle. “Oops. Ryder said I needed to keep my strength up for the singing, and well, my fur-baby needs his vitamins too. You aren’t mad at a puppy, are you?” I looked at her pretty, vacant face, and felt a surge of nausea. “Get lost,” I said, my voice dead. Melody’s face crumpled. Her eyes welled up instantly. “I know you don’t like me, Nancy, but I’m just trying to help Ryder…” “What’s going on here?” Ryder appeared, stepping between us and glaring at me. “Nancy, what is your problem now?” “Ryder… I think she’s mad about the food. She was being so mean…” Melody sobbed. Ryder reached out and slapped the bowl out of my hand. The scalding soup splashed across my chest, turning my skin an angry red. “Nancy! Knock it off! You live here for free on my dime! I tolerate you out of the goodness of my heart, and you have the nerve to bully Melody?” I looked down at the spilled soup on the dirt. The last spark of something in my chest finally went out. “On your dime?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Ryder, do you honestly believe you’re invincible?” Ryder laughed, a loud, arrogant sound. “The proof is in the body count, babe. I’ve never been hurt. Not once. That’s talent. That’s being the best. Something a parasite like you wouldn’t understand.” He pointed a finger at my face. “If it wasn’t for our history, I’d have tossed you over the wall months ago. Don’t push me.” Our history. That was his favorite phrase. I took a deep breath, pushing down the bile. “Fine, Ryder. You win.” I turned and walked back to my damp, moldy tent in the back of the camp. That night, a fever took me. The side effects of the siphon were peaking—my body went from freezing to burning, my bones feeling like they were being gnawed by ants. Ryder didn’t come back. I heard he spent the night in Melody’s tent, listening to her “song.” I curled up under a thin, moth-eaten blanket, clutching a charred, blackened dog tag in my hand. I’d found it in the ruins of that high-rise five years ago. I remembered that day so clearly—the man in the firefighter’s gear who carried me out. I had loved him for five years, protected him for five years. Even as he grew cruel and cold. In the moonlight, I noticed the soot on the tag had flaked off a bit more. I took a piece of sandpaper I’d found and began to polish it, wanting to see his name clearly, to remind myself why I stayed. The name that emerged made my heart stop. It wasn’t Ryder. It was Wyatt. Wyatt, Ryder’s twin brother. The firefighter hero who had actually died before the Collapse even began. The world tilted. Memory is a fickle thing, but the truth hit me like a physical blow. The smoke had been so thick that day. I only remembered the silhouette, the strength of the arms. When Ryder showed up later and claimed it was him, I was so desperate for a savior I didn’t question it. And Ryder? He had just stepped into a dead man’s shoes. He had stolen his brother’s glory. He had stolen my gratitude, my love, and my life. I had been a fool. I had been destroying myself for a thief and a liar. The tears stopped. All that was left was a cold, obsidian hatred. The next morning, the alarms screamed. A horde—a real one—was at the gates. Ryder was in top form, his gear polished, Melody clinging to his arm like an accessory. I walked up to him, my expression a mask of stone. “Ryder. One question.” He huffed, adjusting his gloves. “Make it fast. I have a world to save.” I opened my palm, revealing the dog tag. “Who really pulled me out of the fire?” Ryder froze. His eyes locked onto the tag, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. But he recovered quickly, his face twisting into a sneer. “So you found out. It was Wyatt. So what?” He snatched the tag from my hand and tossed it into a nearby sewer grate. “He’s dead. Dead weight has no value. I’m the one who kept you fed. I’m the one who gave you a home. You owe me.” “So it was always a lie,” I said, my voice trembling. “A lie that kept you alive. Look at you—you’re a walking corpse. If you weren’t my wife, nobody would even look at you.” He patted my cheek condescendingly. “Be smart, Nancy. I’m the King of this Colony. Stay quiet, and you get to keep eating. Bring up the past again, and I’ll show you just how ‘invincible’ I can be.” He turned and headed for the wall. Melody followed, whispering as she passed me, “Hear that, Nancy? Know your place.” I stood there, watching the man I had protected for three years. The shackles on my soul finally shattered. Gratitude? Debt? To hell with that. If you aren’t him, why am I the one bleeding? Below the wall, the zombies were a sea of rotting flesh. Ryder stood at the edge, soaking in the cheers of the soldiers. “Open the gates!” he roared. “I’m going to paint the town red!” I stepped forward, stopping a few feet behind him. He glanced back. “Still here? Get lost! You’re bad luck!” He gave me a hard shove—so hard I fell onto the gravel. My palms scraped open, blood oozing into the dirt. Melody smirked. “Seriously, Nancy, stay back. Your negative energy is going to mess with his flow.” Ryder looked at me with pure loathing. “Hear her? Go. You make me sick.” I stood up, brushing the dust from my pants. My eyes were calmer than they had ever been. “Fine. I’m going.” “Good luck, Ryder,” I whispered under my breath. And then, in my mind, I flicked a switch. Sever connection. The invisible tether that had bound us for three years—the cord through which I drank his poison—snapped. Ryder didn’t notice. He let out a confident huff, leaped off the wall, and charged into the fray. “Overdrive!” The golden light exploded from him. He threw a punch at a lone, wandering zombie. A weakling. Usually, he would have pulverized it with a flick of his wrist. But this time, as his fist connected with the creature’s skull, the zombie’s claw swung out in a desperate, reflexive arc. It caught Ryder across the forearm. Srrr-ip. A bright red line appeared on his perfect, bronze skin. Ryder stopped dead. He stared at his arm in total disbelief. Real, hot blood was welling up. And then, the pain—the white-hot, agonizing reality of a nerve ending being severed—hit him like a lightning bolt. “AGHHHHHHH!” A scream of pure, unadulterated terror ripped through the battlefield. Ryder clutched his arm, his eyes wide with horror. What was happening? Why did it hurt? Why was he bleeding? He was supposed to be made of steel. On the wall, Melody was still singing into her megaphone: “Go Ryder! You’re the best—” But Ryder couldn’t hear her.

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Working during my shift, looking at an ECG chart—someone reported me for trading stocks. The hospital immediately moved to fire me to appease the public outrage. “Thiago, you’ve crossed the line this time. You’re a doctor. How could you trade stocks during work hours?” The administrative director looked genuinely regretful. I’d already explained myself countless times. No one listened. I glanced out the glass window at Williams, the new doctor walking past, and suddenly spoke with complete calm. “Is this about the promotion slot?” The administrative director froze. “There’s only one promotion slot this year. Because Williams’s dad is the deputy director, the promotion has to go to him. So you have to fire me. Is that it?” I asked again. The administrative director hadn’t expected me to call it out so bluntly. He looked uncomfortable. “That’s not what’s happening here…” I laughed. I’d worked at this hospital for ten years. I’d performed nearly two thousand surgeries as lead surgeon. I’d handled countless difficult cases. I’d trained countless new doctors for the hospital. Even when Williams first joined the hospital, I was the one who trained him. During that time, there had been many promotion opportunities. All went to others. Every time, the hospital told me the same thing: just wait a little longer. I waited ten years. But now, to let Williams get promoted without any competition, they wanted to fire me. I looked at the administrative director, removed my ID badge, and placed it on the desk. “You don’t need to fire me. I quit.”

“Just because Williams’s dad is the deputy director?” I asked one more time. The administrative director looked embarrassed at being exposed, awkwardly rubbing his nose. Still spouting official nonsense. “Don’t misunderstand the hospital’s position. You’ve worked here for ten years. You know very well how good the hospital has been to you. The hospital personally cultivated you into what you are today. How could we possibly want to let you go?” “How about this—I’ll discuss it with the hospital leadership. We’ll forget about the firing and keep your position. Just a disciplinary action. Take some time off at home to rest.” Listening to his tone, as if he’d shown me extraordinary mercy and I should be grateful. I wanted to laugh. “So you do know I’ve worked here for ten years.” “In those ten years, I’ve performed nearly two thousand surgeries as lead surgeon. I’ve trained over thirty new doctors for the hospital. Even now, almost everyone in neurosurgery was brought up by me personally.” “Every busy holiday season, I practically lived in the operating room. Last New Year’s, I covered night shifts alone for an entire month.” “Ten whole years. Except for when my grandfather died two years ago, I never took time off.” “During those ten years, the hospital had promotion quotas every year. Colleagues around me came and went. Some were people I trained myself. They all got promoted. I stayed in the same place.” “I asked the hospital about it. What did you tell me? You said I was still young. I could wait.” “But what about now? I’m nearly forty.” “Just because there’s only one promotion slot this year, and Williams’s dad is the deputy director, I deserve to be kicked out?” I slowly stood up, trying to keep my voice steady. “I waited ten years. How much longer do you want me to wait?” The administrative director’s expression soured. “Dr. Thiago, you’re a veteran of this hospital. You should know the hospital faces difficulties too. As a doctor, isn’t saving lives the most important thing? Why obsess over a little empty title?” “You should be understanding toward the hospital.” “I understand the hospital. Who understands me?” I laughed bitterly. “If doctors should save lives and everything else is just empty titles, then why is Williams so obsessed with this promotion? Why don’t you hospital administrators voluntarily resign and go back to frontline work?” I’d completely torn off the facade. The administrative director’s face darkened too. “Thiago, if you insist on putting it that way, there’s nothing more to discuss.” “I’ll tell you straight—you were born without advantages. You don’t have a good father. Who else can you blame?” “You can only blame yourself.” “If you still want to stay at this hospital, go home quietly and rest.” “Otherwise, wait to be fired.” Born without advantages. No good father. My heart felt like it had been stabbed. I took a deep breath and placed my ID badge on the desk. “You don’t need to fire me. I quit.” The administrative director frowned deeply. The hospital’s neurosurgery department was entirely supported by me right now. They didn’t actually want to fire me. They just wanted to use this as an excuse to cancel my promotion opportunity. Seeing that I really intended to resign, he panicked. “Thiago, the hospital has invested so many years in training you. Over a little empty title you’re going to resign? Do you think that’s appropriate? You’re not young anymore. How can you still be so impulsive? Do you really think that leaving the hospital this way, with your character and medical ethics, any other hospital will want you?” “When the time comes, the hospital can issue an industry-wide notice. You’ll simply disappear from this profession. Is it worth it just to prove a point?” “I’d say, wait a little longer. Next year—at the latest next year—your promotion will come through.”

Wait a little longer… Over these ten years, the phrase I’d heard most was “wait a little longer.” Last Christmas, the hospital was incredibly busy. The mother of a city government official had a sudden brain hemorrhage and was rushed to the hospital for emergency treatment. Only I could save her. The deputy director told me then that by spring this year, he’d definitely get me promoted. Now, he’d personally let his son take my slot. And he wanted to use smearing my name as a way to nail me to the pillar of shame. “Thiago, the hospital still values you highly. You need to be grateful…” He was still spouting official talk. I interrupted him. “Values me?” “Because of ‘valuing me,’ I’ve waited ten years. In those ten years, I’ve worked tirelessly and given everything. But how has the hospital treated me?” “They’ve stripped away my promotion opportunities again and again. I’ve watched people ten years younger than me, interns I personally trained, get promoted to attending physicians while I’m still an ordinary doctor. And you still want me to be grateful?” How ridiculous. I pulled at the corner of my mouth, as if I’d heard the world’s biggest joke. “I used to think that once I got promoted this time, I’d dedicate my entire life to the hospital.” “Now I realize how laughable I was.” I looked at him, my expression settling into calm. “I really should thank you, Director Harrell.” Thank you for waking me from my stupidity. I turned and left, walking numbly toward my office. As soon as I sat down, Williams came in cheerfully with pastries, distributing them to all the colleagues. Everyone congratulated him. “Williams, is the promotion settled?” “Congratulations!” “You’re only 24—you’re the youngest person in our hospital to be promoted to attending physician!” “Our department’s counting on you from now on.” Williams smiled shyly. I sat in the corner. Someone saw me and muttered uncomfortably under their breath. “What about Dr. Thiago’s situation? Are they really going to fire her?” “I heard she just went to see Director Harrell. Is there still a chance to turn things around?” “I heard that even if they don’t fire her, she’ll still get a disciplinary action.” “What can Dr. Thiago do?” “What else can she do? Her parents are old and need support. Her kid’s still in school. Middle-aged people’s pain is mortgages, car loans, kids, and elderly parents.” “Forget about disciplinary action—even if they really fired her, she’d have to beg the hospital on her knees.” The office was very quiet. Their voices weren’t loud, but every sentence was clear, like knives stabbing into my heart. The facts were harsh. Because of heavy family burdens and the hospital’s job stability, I’d endured year after year. I kept my head down, my chest tight with frustration. Just then, a bag of pastries appeared in front of me. I looked up to see Williams’s smiling face. “Dr. Thiago, these are my pastries. Please try them.” Before I could respond, he smiled again. “Who knows—maybe we won’t see Dr. Thiago anymore after this.” He blinked, as if concerned, but his eyes carried malice. “Where are you planning to go for your next job, Dr. Thiago? Do you need my help?” Other colleagues heard the commotion and looked over. Their eyes were full of schadenfreude, watching Williams’s mockery and passive-aggressive jabs at me. His smile grew more brazen—the triumphant superior humiliating a complete failure. I didn’t say anything. Seeing my silence, he lost interest and left. I looked at that bag of pastries. It was glaring and painful. The smiley faces on it seemed to mock my failure.

[You have one new email—] The computer screen suddenly flickered. I clicked on it. Sender: Louise, Director of Human Resources, Aisha Hospital Group Headquarters. The content was simple. [Hello Dr. Thiago, I am Louise, Director of Human Resources at Aisha Hospital. We are currently in urgent need of a Chief of Neurosurgery. I have long admired your reputation and would like to establish cooperation with you. Salary range: $100,000-$150,000. Looking forward to your reply.] Her contact information was attached below. Seeing those four words—Chief of Neurosurgery—I suddenly smiled. That was the promotion I’d sought but never obtained at this hospital for ten whole years. I looked at the glaring bag of pastries on the desk. And fell into memory. In my third year at the hospital, they approved three promotion slots. They went to two male colleagues whose performance and ability were far inferior to mine. At the time, the department head sighed privately to me, “In this field, female doctors just don’t have it as good as male doctors. But your abilities are definitely there. Wait a bit longer. We’ll see about next year.” In my fourth year, I participated in a major surgery—a brain aneurysm operation for a celebrity. It was very successful. The hospital’s reputation skyrocketed. The deputy director excitedly patted my shoulder and said, “You’re the pride of our hospital! This year I’ll definitely push for your promotion!” But in the end, the promotion slot went to the doctor who’d been my assistant. He explained to me, “John has been at the hospital for several years. He’s a few years older than you. Be understanding toward him. This promotion slot goes to him first. The hospital is like a small society—you need to understand interpersonal dynamics. But don’t worry. Next year, the slot will definitely be yours.” I believed his words. I waited year after year. Ten full years. Still no promotion that should have been mine. And this time, I didn’t want to wait anymore. Following the email prompt, I added Louise as a contact. [Hello, I’m Thiago. I look forward to cooperating with your hospital.] After sending the message, I used my computer to draft a resignation notice and submitted it to the hospital. As soon as I clicked submit, the hospital made an announcement in the work group chat. [@Everyone @Thiago, Due to patient complaints, the hospital conducted a thorough investigation and confirmed that Dr. Thiago did indeed trade stocks on her computer during work hours. This constitutes a major error during work time. The hospital firmly rejects this kind of irresponsible behavior! To set the record straight, after deliberation, the hospital has decided to issue disciplinary action against Dr. Thiago—] The hospital immediately posted the announcement in the group chat and on the bulletin board. My name was completely nailed to the pillar of shame. Before I could feel angry, the deputy director called. “Thiago, I heard from Director Harrell that you’re dissatisfied with the hospital’s decision?” Before I could respond, he continued. “Thiago, you’re a veteran of this hospital. You should understand hospital rules. You made the mistake first. You should accept the criticism.” I laughed. “Deputy Director, did I really make a mistake?” I didn’t understand why, even now, he was still lying. He coughed lightly. “Thiago, the patient complaint is verified. The hospital has no choice. No matter how resentful you are, you should be understanding toward the hospital.” “Of course, you are a veteran who’s worked with the hospital for so many years. The hospital still values you. Although there’s really no way around this year’s promotion slot, there will still be opportunities next year.” “You have to believe—the hospital still values you highly.” “Values me?” I looked at the group announcement. “Valuing me means stealing my promotion slot year after year. Valuing me means framing and slandering me for negligence to steal the promotion slot? Valuing me means publicly humiliating me?” “If this is your way of valuing me, I really can’t accept it.”

Seeing I wasn’t complying, he laid it all out. “Thiago, you’re not young anymore. You should wise up. The disciplinary notice has already gone out. The entire industry will see it. Do you think with your disgraceful record, besides our hospital, any other hospital would want you?” “If you continue being ungrateful, I can guarantee you—leave this hospital, and you won’t even be able to stay in the medical profession.” “Think about your parents, your child, your car loan and mortgage. Don’t be impulsive.” My breathing caught. Just because I’m middle-aged with heavy burdens, they were certain they could control me. That’s why they dared to bully and exploit me so brazenly. “Go post an apology statement. Rest at home for a few days. That’ll be the end of it.” “Thiago, I value you. This is for your own good. I’m willing to give you a chance. You need to cherish it.” His tone was relaxed, completely confident, as if certain I’d continue to endure just like I had all these years. “I’m truly touched by your kindness.” I hung up directly. I looked at the surgery schedule in my hand. Three days from now, there was a brain arterial dissection aneurysm surgery. The patient was… a renowned mathematical scientist. The lead surgeon column had my name. The assistant was Williams. I closed the page, stood up, gathered my things, and walked out. They thought I was easy to control. They thought I didn’t deserve promotion? Since the promotion slot went to Williams, let him do the surgery. I wanted to see whether this “favored son” they spoke of could successfully complete this operation! I left the hospital and went to Aisha Hospital. This was an international chain hospital. In terms of resources, they were first-tier, in a league of their own. Their cooperation intentions with me were very clear and direct. Even after learning about my disciplinary action from my former hospital, they immediately signed a contract with me. The salary and benefits were exactly as previously discussed. Chief of Neurosurgery. Annual salary of $100,000. My own medical team and laboratory. To celebrate my joining, Aisha even held a special welcome reception, publicly announcing my addition to the medical staff and showering me with praise. I was praised so much I felt a bit embarrassed. But seeing the value and friendliness Aisha Hospital showed me from top to bottom, my heart warmed. On the second day after I joined Aisha Hospital, my phone was flooded with calls. When I woke up, I had over fifty missed calls, all from the deputy director and the hospital director. Seeing I hadn’t answered, they kept sending messages. Before I could read their messages clearly, my phone rang again. Still the deputy director. After a few seconds’ pause, I answered. The deputy director’s furious shouting immediately came through. “Thiago! The surgery’s about to start! Where are you?! Get over here now!” I spoke calmly. “I resigned. I sent my resignation letter to the hospital email. Didn’t you see it?”

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I thought Frederic shielding me from a knife with his own body was the deepest love of my life. Then I discovered it was all a staged act, a calculated ploy to make me willingly lie on the operating table and donate my bone marrow to his childhood sweetheart with leukemia, Lydia. He bought the hospital, deceived my mother, watched me take “nutritional supplements” every day, all to turn me into a convenient source of blood. When they injected me with sedatives and forcibly extracted my marrow, my mother died alone in a car accident. I never got to see her one last time. I dragged my broken body to a remote mountain village, completely numb inside. Two years later, he knelt at the medical station entrance begging for my forgiveness. I laughed coldly and handed him surgical scissors. “You said you loved me, right? Then reopen that scar you got from ‘saving’ me, and we’ll be even.” He actually did it, blood dripping onto the ground. I turned to smile at Luke, who had just returned. “Come on, the steaks are done. We’re having a feast tonight.” Watching the tenderness in my eyes for another man, Frederic completely broke down.

Clara’s POV Everyone envied me because this love was something Frederic had risked his life for. Three years ago, when a crazed patient’s family member raised a knife to strike, I thought I was dead. It was Frederic who blocked that fatal blow with his bare hands. His blood sprayed onto my white coat, dripping down the hem. As chaos erupted in the emergency room, he simply covered my eyes with that blood-soaked hand and said in a steady voice, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.” That scar across his palm, deep enough to show bone, became the ultimate proof of his love for me. To ensure I’d never be frightened again, billionaire Frederic swiftly dealt with all the trouble. He brought me to high society galas, announcing to everyone that I was his future wife. To let me complete my residency in an absolutely safe environment, he spent money to buy shares in an entire private hospital. I thought, on this exhausting path of practicing medicine, Frederic was my only safe harbor. But tonight, everything changed. I walked into his study carrying warm milk. The drawer under his desk was half-open. I set down the glass and reached to close the drawer for him. The moment my fingers touched the edge, a medical document pressed beneath business reports showed its corner. Professional instinct made me sensitive to medical terminology. I pulled out the document. The header was printed in bold black: Bone Marrow Matching Agreement. Donor: Clara. Recipient: Lydia. Match similarity: Ten out of ten loci fully compatible. Those names stabbed at my eyes. Lydia, Frederic’s childhood friend who had leukemia and grew up receiving treatment abroad. My hand holding the agreement trembled uncontrollably. Not only did it contain my detailed physical examination data, it even outlined a three-month bone marrow maturation plan. Every item on the plan had a red checkmark next to it. My gaze froze rigidly on the familiar handwriting at the signature line as tears splashed onto the pages. So when Frederic had lovingly coaxed me, practicing writing my name over and over on blank papers, it wasn’t some romantic gesture. It was so he could forge my “signature” on this agreement. Footsteps suddenly sounded outside the door. I hurriedly shoved the document back in the drawer and retreated into the shadows by the bookshelf, holding my breath. Frederic didn’t enter. He answered a phone call in the hallway, his voice low. “Stop rushing me. Her hematopoietic stem cells haven’t reached optimal condition yet.” “Frederic, you’re being way too good to Clara. You even bought her a private hospital. People who don’t know better would think you actually fell for that resident doctor.” The teasing voice of his friend came through the phone, carrying a hint of amusement. Frederic didn’t respond. I felt completely drained, desperately covering my mouth to keep from making a sound. Cold dread climbed up my spine, numbing my limbs. The friend’s voice continued on the phone. “But seriously, hiring those actors to cause trouble in the ER, even deliberately taking that knife yourself. That false flag operation was brilliant. Clara’s completely devoted to you now. Won’t Lydia be jealous if she sees how you two interact normally?” Frederic cut him off coldly. “Shut up. Discussing Lydia’s situation to my face. Do you have a death wish?” “My bad, my bad. Everyone knows Lydia is precious to you. This is all to make Clara willingly lie on that operating table, right?” “Once the matching matures, we’ll use her marrow to save Lydia’s life.” Frederic didn’t refute it. He just rubbed his temples and gave a low warning. “Keep your mouth shut. Don’t let anything leak before the surgery. After it’s done, I’ll transfer a substantial health compensation from my account, enough for her to recover comfortably for the rest of her life.” Whatever else they said, I couldn’t hear anymore. Crouched in the dead corner by the bookshelf, my mind went completely blank.

Clara’s POV I’d been determined to study medicine since I was eighteen. Three years ago, I nearly died under that blade. The memories churned violently in my chest. The patient’s family member suddenly attacking, the blade cutting through air, blood everywhere… it was all staged by Frederic? I’d spent six months recovering, hiding in the house he bought, doing psychological rehabilitation day and night. He was the one who pulled me out of that psychological shadow. He was the one who coaxed me to sleep every night, saying “I’ll protect you from now on.” He even brought my mother from the suburbs into the city center. He even brought my mother from the suburbs into the city center. He spent a fortune arranging for her to stay at a top tier nursing facility under the family corporation. My mother had bad legs. He, a billionaire, personally knelt on the floor to change her bandages and wash her feet. My mother would hold his hand and laugh until she cried. “Frederic, I think of you as my own son. With Clara in your hands, I can close my eyes peacefully one day.” He would grip her hand back, eyes utterly sincere. “You’ll recover. I’ll protect Clara with my life.” In my final university year, he proposed to me for the first time, kneeling at the end of the emergency department corridor, saying “I love you.” Every time I saw the knife scar on his palm, I’d cry from heartache. I’d made him the only light in my life! It was all fake. No crazed patient’s family, no salvation. Just a cruel calculation to obtain quality bone marrow. After a long silence, the hallway went quiet. Frederic pushed open the study door, glanced at the warm milk on the desk, picked it up and took a sip, then turned and left. It wasn’t until the study door closed completely that I realized tears had been streaming down my face. An uncontrollable nausea rose in my stomach. I stumbled into the study’s attached bathroom, kneeling over the toilet and dry heaving violently. But only mouthfuls of acidic water came up. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and dialed the number at the very bottom of my contacts. My university advisor, now serving as medical team leader in a remote city. The phone rang for a long time before someone answered. “Professor, I’m sorry to bother you so late.” I pinched my thigh hard, suppressing the sob in my throat. “Clara? What happened? Your voice sounds wrong.” My advisor was clearly startled on the other end. I covered my mouth, shaking my head frantically as tears splashed onto the floor. “Professor, I’ve just made up my mind. I want to apply to join your remote mountain medical team. Is it still possible to sign up?” “Really? Clara, it would be wonderful if you could come! We’re desperately short-staffed here. I heard you ranked first in your residency evaluation… When can you leave?” “One week.” I bit down hard, swallowing the bloody taste in my mouth. “Once I handle things here, I’ll definitely come.” After hanging up, I braced myself against the sink and stood up, forcefully wiping the tears from my face. I stared at the red-eyed woman in the mirror and let out an extremely soft, cold laugh. How stupid, Clara. As a doctor who’d seen death and betrayal countless times, how could I give my heart to a businessman and expect salvation? I returned to the bedroom, opened my laptop, and without any hesitation bought a one-way ticket to the remote mountains for one week later. Then I dragged my suitcase out from under the bed and began mechanically stuffing in medical books and notes. From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of the long row of foreign labeled “premium nutritional supplements” on the nightstand, ones Frederic had specially air shipped from abroad every week, claiming they were to restore my health after years of night shifts. Every single day, like an extremely responsible husband, he’d personally pour warm water and watch me swallow them. Now it seemed they were nothing but catalysts to mature my bone marrow. I stared at the pill bottle in my hand, feeling a dull, cutting pain in my heart. The door lock clicked softly. “Why didn’t you take your supplements today?” A warm chest suddenly pressed against me from behind. Frederic pushed through the door, his arm naturally circling my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. His tone carried its usual teasing affection, his breath carrying the mint scent I used to crave most.

Clara’s POV Every muscle in my body tensed instantly. I forced down the nausea rising to my throat. “I just took them.” I heard my own hollow voice. “Why did you pull out your suitcase? Aren’t you working in the ER tomorrow?” Frederic’s gaze moved past my shoulder to the half-open suitcase. He frowned and released one hand to pull open my desk drawer. Inside was the train ticket purchase confirmation I’d just printed. I grabbed his wrist abruptly. The instant our skin touched, sticky revulsion overwhelmed me. My face turned pale, fingertips ice-cold. “Not feeling well?” Frederic grasped my hand in return, using his other hand to check my forehead. “Why are you sweating so much?” “I did back-to-back shifts in the ER for over ten hours. I’m tired.” I turned my head away from his hand. “I’m looking for thick clothes to wash. The season’s changing soon.” Frederic didn’t probe further, just scooped me up and tucked me into bed. “Tomorrow I’ll have someone schedule a full physical exam and give you two days off to rest properly. Your health can’t afford any mistakes.” He emphasized that last sentence. I closed my eyes, pretending to sleep. That night, I had a nightmare. In the dream, the troublemaking family member’s knife didn’t strike Frederic. It plunged straight into my chest. Blood gushed out. Frederic, wearing a surgical mask, approached with blood collection tubes, smiling. “Your blood is perfect for Lydia.” “No!” I cried and struggled. A hazy voice drifted through the dream. “Clara, don’t be afraid. I’m here.” Frederic pulled me into his arms, patting my back like comforting a child, kissing away the cold sweat on my forehead. Like a dying fish, I bit down hard on his forearm. Frederic grunted but didn’t push me away. Instead, he held me tighter. I slowly released my jaw, tasting rusty blood in my mouth. I numbly pushed him away, staring at the teeth marks on his arm, realizing I didn’t even have the strength to push him off. “Had a nightmare? Don’t be afraid. I’m right here with you.” He continued playing the perfect fiancé. The next morning, before leaving, he left warm water and pills on the nightstand, then sent a message reminding me to pick up my latest checkup report from hematology. Expressionless, I flushed all those expensive pills down the toilet. Such meticulous care for a walking blood bank about to go under the knife. His patience was truly admirable. Well, he had been acting for three years after all. I went to the hospital alone. The head of the physical examination department saw my report and joked with a smile. “Clara, you’re very healthy. Those loving nutritious meals Frederic has delivered every day haven’t been wasted.” Yes, excellent condition. I took the report back to my office. Passing by the VIP ward, I stopped inexplicably. Through a palm-width crack in the door, I could see inside clearly. Frederic sat on the edge of the bed. He held a bowl in his hands. Lydia leaned against soft pillows, face pale. Frederic scooped up a spoonful of chicken soup and blew on it to cool it down. He brought the spoon to Lydia’s lips. “Is it too hot?” His voice was low and gentle. Lydia shook her head, swallowed the soup, then reached up to grab the corner of his clothing. Frederic naturally set down the bowl and pulled out a wet wipe to carefully dab the corners of her mouth. His movements were practiced and natural, full of tender care. My heart ached watching this. So this was Frederic’s truly devoted side. “Frederic, I’m really scared. What if Clara changes her mind? After all, bone marrow extraction isn’t a small burden on the body.” That was Lydia’s voice, delicate, aggrieved, carrying a pitiful worry. Frederic gripped her hand in return. He pressed her hand against his own cheek. “Don’t overthink it.” He tapped Lydia’s nose. Lydia leaned into his embrace. Frederic extended his arm around her shoulders, chin resting on top of her head. “She won’t back out.” Frederic’s voice was certain, yet somehow carried a hint of heaviness even he hadn’t noticed. “Once this bone marrow transplant is over, I’ll give her a substantial compensation in my personal capacity, and I’ll transfer the villa in the south district to her name. She saved you. I won’t mistreat her. Ensuring she’s financially secure for the rest of her life is the least I can do.”

Clara’s POV The hospital room fell silent for a moment, then Lydia’s even softer voice came through. “Frederic, you’re so good. Clara worked so hard to save my life. Once I recover and we get married, I’ll definitely treat her like family and repay her kindness properly.” At this point, Lydia paused and looked up at him. Her tone took on a carefully probing quality. “But Frederic… spending all this time together with Clara… have you… developed feelings for her?” The hospital room fell into brief dead silence. Outside the door, I pressed against the cold tiled wall, nails digging deep into my palms, holding my breath waiting for that answer. After a long while, Frederic’s dismissive low laugh finally came from inside, as if reassuring her, or perhaps desperately convincing himself. “What are you thinking? I only feel gratitude toward her, nothing else. The person I love has always been you, Lydia.” Hearing those words, I slowly released my clenched hands, letting the blood from my nail marks blur across my palm. So in his heart, my life-saving devotion amounted to nothing more than “gratitude” and compensation money to buy off the relationship. With that final glance, I saw Lydia smile provocatively in my direction. I felt completely hollow inside. I stumbled back several steps, turned and ran toward the stairwell. Three years of constant companionship. In his eyes, it was just deception and gratitude. That evening at the villa, Frederic sat on the living room sofa flipping through a magazine. I took off my coat, put on my most obedient act, changed into slippers and sat down beside him. “Why do you look so pale?” He set down the magazine, habitually pinching my chin to examine me carefully, concern flickering in his eyes, concern he himself hadn’t even noticed. “I assisted in two back to back emergency resuscitations. Low blood sugar.” I turned my head, turning away just enough to avoid his touch. A flash of something passed through Frederic’s eyes as his hand froze mid-air. He didn’t actually want to hurt me. It was just that Lydia’s condition required bone marrow. He kept telling himself this was merely a transaction. Just then, my phone in my pocket buzzed. A strange text appeared on the lock screen: Hello Clara, your car in parking level B3, section D has been scratched by another vehicle. Please come handle it when you’re free. I turned around and said naturally to Frederic, “Property management just messaged. They said my car got slightly scratched in the garage. I’ll go down to deal with it now.” The underground garage was dimly lit, permanently reeking of damp mold. I’d just reached section D when several drunk, ill-intentioned men surrounded me from behind the pillars. “This little beauty looks so pure. Why don’t you keep us company tonight, sweetheart!” The lead man leered, lunging forward to grab my collar and roughly tear at my clothes. The crisp sound of buttons popping echoed sharply in the garage. I stumbled backward in horror. In the dim light, I recognized the lead man’s face. It was the “fake patient’s family member” who’d held the knife three years ago in the emergency room! “Get away! Don’t touch me!” I struggled desperately, but the disparity in strength was too great. Just as the man’s rough hands were about to completely shred my clothing and push me into hell. A massive crash! Blinding headlights suddenly blazed over us, accompanied by the shriek of emergency brakes. Frederic jumped out of the car, eyes bloodshot. “You’re dead!” Like a rabid beast, Frederic kicked the lead man flying several meters away. He struck viciously, quickly beating the remaining thugs bloody and sending them scrambling away in terror. After driving off the attackers, Frederic spun around abruptly, stripping off his suit jacket and wrapping my disheveled form tightly. He crushed me forcefully into his embrace, his usually steady, strong arms now trembling violently. “Clara… it’s okay now, I’m here, don’t be afraid…” Frederic held me tightly, his lingering fear palpable, his voice betraying a deep panic and terror he himself hadn’t recognized. In that moment, he genuinely feared losing me, feared me getting hurt in the slightest. Yet leaning against Frederic’s warm chest, listening to his violent heartbeat, I only felt like I’d plunged into an icy abyss, cold to the bone. I stared blankly at the direction those men had fled, recognizing the temporary actor who’d wielded the knife three years ago.

Clara’s POV How absurd. Three years ago, to get close to me, he’d hired people to stage an act, blocked a knife for me, and stole my heart. Now, to ensure I’d willingly lie on the operating table to donate marrow to Lydia, he’d used the same trick again, hiring the same group to perform this cheap “hero rescues beauty” routine to deepen my devotion? “Clara?” Sensing my stiffness, Frederic looked down anxiously to check on me. “I’m fine.” I slowly pushed away slightly, abandoning my struggle and obediently lowering my eyes. I concealed the disappointment deep in my gaze. Frederic, to drain every last drop of my usefulness, you’ve really gone to great lengths. The next morning, I’d barely walked into the ER when I sensed something was wrong. No one at the nurses’ station greeted me as usual. Everyone was looking down at their phones. Seeing me approach, they immediately fell silent, their eyes filled with shock, scrutiny, and barely concealed contempt. Dr. Lee, the supervisor, called me into the office with a grave expression and handed me his phone. Online and in the hospital’s private groups, several secretly taken photos were going viral. The photos showed me from last night, disheveled and in disarray when those thugs had nearly assaulted me. The accompanying posts were even more vicious, spreading rumors that my private life was extremely chaotic and indecent, even escalating to accusations that I had no medical ethics and didn’t deserve to be a doctor. My whole body went cold. I clutched the hem of my clothes, fingertips white. Last night’s nightmare that nearly destroyed me was now being ruthlessly exposed for everyone’s crude entertainment. “Clara,” he sighed, his tone carrying not stern rebuke but helplessness. “The online public opinion is getting out of hand. Those photos and posts… have seriously affected the ER’s normal operations. Many colleagues and patients’ families are gossiping.” I took a deep breath, my voice trembling slightly. “Dr. Lee, I…” “Don’t rush to explain.” Dr. Lee interrupted me, his tone softening. “Frederic already called me personally this morning. He said these are malicious online fabrications. To protect you from further harm by gossip and public opinion, he specifically instructed me to give you paid leave for a while, go home and let things blow over. During this time, just rest at home and don’t look at your phone.” Paid leave? I stood frozen. My heart, already dead as ashes, couldn’t help but ripple with bitter irony. If I hadn’t seen that bone marrow matching agreement in his study… I really would have believed this man was shielding me from the storm. Only two more days until I could leave all this behind. I silently counted down in my heart. This was just the final pacification before the walking blood bank went under the knife. I lowered my lashes, concealing the complexity in my eyes, and said softly, “Okay, I understand. Thank you, Dr. Lee. And please thank Frederic for me.” Frederic had arranged everything perfectly. First, keeping me home under the guise of protection, then when the time came, straight to the operating table. And the upcoming long break would conveniently let me recover from the weakness after marrow extraction.

Clara’s POV After staying home for a day, I felt restless. I decided that no matter what, I needed to go back before leaving to personally organize and hand over some personal items and unfinished medical records, at least to have proper closure. More importantly, I wanted to test whether I could still freely enter and exit the hospital during my “leave.” This was crucial to my final escape plan. So the next afternoon, I went to the hospital. The ER corridor still occasionally sent strange looks my way, but I no longer cared. However, fate never seemed willing to let me off easy. I’d barely sat down in the on call room when my phone rang. An unknown number. I hesitated, then answered. An anxious traffic officer’s voice came through. “Is this Clara? There was a multi vehicle collision at the downtown intersection. Among the injured is a woman named Rebecca Hayes. We found your number in her emergency contacts. The patient’s condition is critical and she’s been rushed to City Center Hospital for emergency treatment. Please come immediately…” My mind went blank. The pen in my hand clattered to the floor. “I’m coming right now! Please, you have to save her!” I grabbed my coat and stumbled toward the door. But just as my hand touched the doorknob, the on-call room door was pushed open from outside. Dr. Lee stood there with two male nurses blocking the doorway, locking the door behind them. “Dr. Hayes, where are you going?” Dr. Lee’s eyes were evasive. “Dr. Lee, my mother was in a car accident at City Center Hospital! I have to go now!” Tears streamed down my face in desperation. Before I could finish, two male nurses grabbed my shoulders firmly. “Dr. Lee? What are you doing? Let me go!” I struggled in terror. Dr. Lee, thinking I was trying to escape, waved for the nurses to inject me with sedatives while saying, “I’m sorry, Clara. Frederic gave orders. You can’t leave the hospital today. Lydia’s condition suddenly deteriorated. The surgery has to be moved up to today.” “No… you can’t!” I cried out desperately. “My mom is waiting for me! Don’t you have any conscience? Let me out!” I struggled desperately like a caged beast protecting her young, but the disparity in strength made it impossible to break free. “Quick, sedate her. Frederic’s private medical team is already waiting in the premium operating room on basement level one.” Dr. Lee gritted his teeth and gave the order. Ice-cold medication rapidly entered my bloodstream, bringing suffocating dizziness that swept through my entire body. My pupils gradually dilated. I reached futilely toward the door, tears mixed with cold sweat splashing heavily onto the floor, my mouth forming weak, desperate murmurs. “Mom… wait for me…” Darkness completely swallowed me. In that moment, I hated Frederic with every fiber of my being.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “383074”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster

I stood in the visa center and learned that my five-year marriage was fake. Ethan Laurent loved me more than anything. Or so I thought. Turns out, three years ago he married Mara, the woman who crippled my right hand, just so he could use fake documents to keep me caged forever. He orchestrated the car accident that shattered my world, then knelt by my bed kissing my scars, saying “my life is yours.” I bit back my disgust and pretended to love him deeply, all while secretly planning my escape. Two years later, I stood in the Golden Hall conducting my own symphony. My right hand bore scars, but it played the movement of freedom. I stepped over the documents, took my new husband’s arm, threw Ethan’s diamond ring into the Danube, and sneered. “Your life, your money. They disgust me.” Stella POV On our fifth wedding anniversary, I went to the visa center to apply for a study visa to Vienna. As I slid my documents through the window, I was still looking down, replying to Ethan’s message. “Baby, come home early today. I’ve prepared a surprise for you. Love you.” I had just started to smile when the clerk pushed my documents back. “Miss Sterling, you filled out your marital status incorrectly. The system shows you’re single, not married.” I froze for a moment, then pushed the materials back. “You must have made a mistake. I got married five years ago.” My husband was Ethan Laurent, CEO of Laurent Group. The man who controlled billions in assets with ruthless methods, yet held me like a treasure in the palm of his hand. The clerk typed a few more keystrokes, her tone certain. “The database can’t be wrong. You’re definitely unmarried. However…” She paused, her expression turning strange. “The spouse you listed, Mr. Ethan. The system shows he got married three years ago. To someone named Mara Lynn. Do you know her?” My blood turned to ice in that instant. Mara Lynn? How could I not know her. Three years ago, I received an offer as principal cellist with the Vienna Royal Symphony Orchestra. My future was bright. But just before I was supposed to leave for abroad, Mara drove her sports car straight into mine like a maniac. That car accident shattered my right wrist beyond repair. I could never play the cello again. Ethan’s eyes had turned bloodshot. He grabbed Mara’s throat and nearly strangled her to death. He used every means at his disposal to destroy the Lynn family completely, then had Mara committed to a psychiatric hospital, saying he’d make her wish she were dead. To comfort me, having lost my dream and nearly taken my own life several times, Ethan canceled all his work and stayed by my side for an entire year. He searched the world for the best doctors. When I couldn’t sleep through the nights from the pain, this man who feared nothing knelt by my bed, eyes red, kissing my scars over and over. “Stella, you still have me. My life is yours.” But now, the clerk was telling me I had never been married. And the man who swore he’d make Mara suffer worse than death had married her three years ago. The very year my life was destroyed in that accident. “Miss Sterling? Do you still want to process the visa?” The clerk’s voice pulled me back. “…No, I don’t. Thank you.” I don’t know how I walked out of the visa center. The early autumn wind cut through me like ice. I sat on a bench by the roadside and pulled out my phone, staring at the familiar profile picture pinned at the top of my chat list. For five years, Ethan had reported his schedule to me every day. Every message ended with “love you.” He gave me a wedding that made headlines across the city. Hundreds of media outlets, seas of flowers. Everyone knew Ethan was head over heels for Sterling. But it turned out it was all just a show. It meant nothing legally. We were never really married. My identity as Mrs. Laurent was fake. Only my destroyed right hand and three years of depression and pain were real. My phone buzzed. Another message from Ethan. “Stella, just finished my meeting. Heading to pick up the cake I ordered for you. Be a good girl and wait for me at home.” I stared at the text, suddenly feeling my stomach churn. I didn’t cry. I didn’t call him hysterically demanding answers. I simply opened the location tracking app on my phone. Ethan was a control freak. To “protect” me, he’d installed tracking on my phone. But he didn’t know I was extremely clever. I’d long ago reverse-engineered the program and could see his location too. The red dot on the screen wasn’t at his usual cake shop. It had stopped at a private maternity hospital outside the city. I stood up and hailed a cab. “Harmony Private Hospital.” My voice was perfectly steady, without a trace of trembling. I wanted to see exactly how Ethan would lie to me.

Stella POV The VIP ward section of the private hospital was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Wearing a mask and baseball cap, I avoided the security guards and stood outside the half-open door at the end of the corridor. Through the crack, I saw the man who said he was picking up a cake. Ethan wore a custom suit, his posture straight and tall as he sat beside the hospital bed. He held a bowl of chicken soup, carefully blowing on each spoonful to cool it before bringing it to the lips of the woman in the bed. The woman in the bed was none other than Mara, the one he’d supposedly “committed to a psychiatric hospital” three years ago. Mara’s belly was already slightly swollen. She pushed the spoon away with a coy pout. “Ethan, I don’t want any more. This soup is too rich.” “The doctor said your pregnancy isn’t stable. You need to eat more nutritious food.” Ethan’s voice was tender enough to drip honey, the same tone I’d heard for five years. I stood outside the door, coldly watching this scene. My heart felt like it was being crushed by an invisible hand. Even breathing tasted like blood. “Ethan, today is your fifth anniversary with Stella, isn’t it?” Mara leaned into Ethan’s embrace, her fingers playing with his tie. “Shouldn’t you go home and be with her? Won’t she get suspicious?” Ethan set down the bowl and casually smoothed Mara’s hair. “She’s very obedient and trusts me completely. She won’t overthink things.” “Sometimes I’m really jealous of her.” Mara pouted. “You keep her in that golden cage, spoiling her like a princess. And me? Even though I have the marriage certificate as Mrs. Laurent, I have to hide here like some mistress in the shadows, trying to keep this baby safe.” “Mara, don’t start.” Ethan’s eyes darkened, his tone carrying a warning edge. “We agreed on this three years ago. She wanted to fly to Vienna. I couldn’t keep her here. You were the one who did what I couldn’t bring myself to do. You crashed into her car, shattered her hand, clipped her wings so she could only depend on me.” Outside the door, my body went rigid. “You did what I was too soft-hearted to do and took all the blame. As compensation, I gave you the title of Mrs. Laurent, gave the Lynn family unlimited wealth and status, and now I’ve let you carry my child.” Ethan gripped Mara’s chin, his voice cold and cruel. “But remember that the only person I love is Stella. You’d better behave yourself and not disturb her. Otherwise, everything I’ve given you, I can take away just as easily.” Mara’s face went pale. She quickly wrapped her arms around his waist. “I understand. I won’t provoke her. As long as I can stay by your side, I’ll do anything.” Inside the room, the two embraced. Outside the room, I bit my lip so hard I tasted thick blood in my mouth. So that was it. There was no revenge born of twisted love. No so-called redemption. The car accident three years ago that destroyed my life was orchestrated by Ethan himself! He was afraid I’d go abroad, afraid I’d escape his control, so he used Mara’s hands to completely destroy me! Then he descended like a savior, caging me up, enjoying my complete dependence and adoration. What a terrifying man. What disgusting love. I slowly unclenched my fists. My palms were marked with deep bloody crescents from my nails. I didn’t burst in and slap them. I didn’t break down crying. I just took one long look at the man I’d loved for five years, then turned and silently left the hospital. The moment I walked out the hospital doors, the sunlight was so bright I couldn’t open my eyes. I pulled out my phone, saved the recording I’d just made, then uploaded it to an encrypted cloud storage. I wouldn’t cling to him. And I certainly wouldn’t forgive him. Since Ethan liked playing these games, I’d play along to the very end. Only this time, the roles of prey and hunter would be reversed.

Stella POV At seven that evening, I returned right on time to the penthouse apartment in the city center. The place was decorated romantically. Red roses covering the floor, flickering candlelight, and an elaborate French dinner on the table. The lock turned and Ethan walked in carrying an elegant cake box. Seeing me sitting on the sofa, his cold, hard features instantly softened. He strode over and pulled me tightly into his arms. “Baby, happy fifth anniversary.” He lowered his head to find my lips, urgent and deeply infatuated. I didn’t dodge. I even tilted my head slightly, meeting his kiss. But as I closed my eyes, my heart was ice cold. Ethan’s kiss was passionate, carrying his signature scent of cold cedar. I used to be most enchanted by this smell. Now it only made me nauseous. Because I could detect it. Mixed with that cedar scent was the smell of hospital disinfectant and another woman’s perfume. “Why are your hands so cold?” Ethan released me, held my hands to his lips and kissed them, his brow furrowing. “Did you go out today?” “Mm, I went to a flower shop.” My voice was soft. “I wanted to buy some flowers to decorate with.” A dark gleam flashed in Ethan’s eyes, but it was quickly covered by tenderness. “From now on, let the servants do that kind of thing. Your wrist was injured. You can’t let it get cold.” He brought up my wrist again. In the past, every time he mentioned it, I felt warmth, thinking he cared about me. Now it sounded like a poisoned blade, twisting again and again in my wound. “Okay, I’ll listen to you.” I nodded obediently. During dinner, Ethan took out a velvet box and pushed it toward me. Inside was a pink diamond necklace worth a fortune. “I bid on this at Sotheby’s a few days ago. The moment I saw it, I knew only my Stella was worthy of it.” Ethan walked behind me and fastened it around my neck himself, his warm breath falling on my skin. “Stella, we’re going to be together forever.” I looked at our reflection in the glass window. The man looked deeply in love. The woman was beautiful as a flower. We looked like such a perfect couple. “Ethan.” I suddenly spoke, my voice very soft. “If one day I lied to you, what would you do?” Ethan’s hands froze on the necklace clasp. His eyes instantly turned dark and sinister, but he quickly masked it. He embraced me from behind, his voice low and hoarse. “You wouldn’t. But if you dared to lie to me, dared to leave me, I’d break your legs and lock you to the bed so you couldn’t go anywhere.” He sounded like he was joking, but I knew he was deadly serious. “I was just kidding.” I turned around and wrapped my arms around his neck, smiling. “I love you so much. How could I ever leave you?” Ethan’s expression completely softened. He scooped me up and strode toward the bedroom. That night, Ethan was fierce, as if he wanted to fuse me into his bones and blood. I cooperated with him the entire time. When Ethan finally fell into a deep sleep, I gently pushed away the arm draped across my waist and got out of bed. I walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and washed my body over and over with cold water until my skin turned red and raw. After showering, I took out a backup phone and logged into a dark web account. “I need a complete new identity with all traces of my past erased. As fast as possible.” The reply came quickly. “Rush job will take half a month. Fee is five million.” “Money’s not a problem. In fifteen days, I need the documents.” I shut off the phone and looked at the pale but determined woman in the mirror. Fifteen days. Ethan, your good days are numbered. Only fifteen left.

Stella POV Over the next few days, I acted more docile and clingy than ever before. I’d cook Ethan’s favorite dishes myself, help him with his tie before he left for work, and even wander around in front of him wearing nothing but his dress shirt while he was in video conferences, making him hastily end meetings to pin me on the sofa and kiss me. Ethan was thrilled, almost fanatically so, by this change in me. He grew more and more unable to leave me, canceling all social engagements and coming home punctually every day. “Stella, you’ve been so good lately. I love you like this.” Ethan buried his head in the crook of my neck, greedily inhaling my scent. “I wish I could shrink you down and carry you in my pocket wherever I go.” I stroked his hair and smiled. “Because I’ve discovered I love you more and more every day.” Ethan’s body stiffened for a moment, then he held me even tighter. He thought he’d completely tamed this bird that once wanted to fly free. He didn’t know this was just the last illusion the bird was leaving him before flying away. That afternoon, after Ethan went to the office, my phone received a picture message from an unknown number. The photo showed a men’s tie casually tossed on rumpled bedsheets. That tie was the very one I’d fastened around Ethan’s neck this morning. Another text came through immediately: “He spent last night here. He said you’re as boring as a block of wood. Stella, you’ve monopolized him for five years. It’s time you returned him to me.” I looked at the screen without even raising an eyebrow. Mara couldn’t contain herself anymore. She was starting to provoke me. She thought I’d confront Ethan like a shrew or break down in heartbroken hysterics. Too bad. She miscalculated. Not only wasn’t I angry, I actually found it somewhat amusing. I casually deleted the photos and blocked the number. When Ethan came home that evening, I was sitting on the carpet working on a puzzle. “Why are you sitting on the floor? You’ll catch cold.” Ethan walked over and scooped me up, placing me on the sofa. I naturally leaned into his embrace, my fingers tracing circles on his chest. “Ethan, I got a strange text today.” Ethan’s movements stopped. His eyes instantly sharpened. “What text?” “A photo and some nonsensical messages.” I looked up at him. “Seemed like some woman’s prank. I didn’t pay attention to it. Just deleted it.” Ethan’s expression visibly darkened, violent rage churning in his eyes. But facing me, he still tried his best to restrain himself. “Don’t be scared. Probably just spam sent to the wrong number. I’ll have someone look into it.” “Mm, I trust you.” I nodded obediently. The next day, I heard that the private hospital where Mara was staying had been surrounded by Ethan’s men. Ethan flew into a terrible rage, nearly smashing up the hospital room, warning Mara that if she dared provoke me again, he’d abort the baby in her belly and throw her in the ocean to feed the fish. Mara was so frightened she had complications with the pregnancy and was bedridden for three days. I listened to the private investigator’s report and smiled. Watching rabid dogs tear into each other never got old. Ethan thought he was protecting me. In reality, he was just protecting his own perfect, inviolable sense of control. The more he acted this way, the more disgusted I felt. Ten days until I left. I began systematically erasing my traces from this house. I fed my old diaries and drawings into the paper shredder, bit by bit. I was going to erase myself from Ethan’s world so completely that not even a speck of dust would remain for him.

Stella POV That weekend, Ethan canceled all his appointments and took me to a private island. As the helicopter landed, I saw the enormous medieval-castle-like structure on the island. “Do you like it?” Ethan held my hand as we descended from the aircraft. The sea breeze lifted his coat. He looked at me with eyes both fanatical and obsessive. “I spent three years building this for you. From now on, we’ll live here. No one will ever disturb us again.” I looked at that magnificent castle, feeling only a bone-deep chill in my heart. This wasn’t a castle. This was clearly an enormous, inescapable cage. Ethan truly planned to imprison me completely. “It’s beautiful.” I suppressed the coldness in my heart, turned to look at him, and forced out two tears. “Ethan, you’re too good to me.” Ethan smiled with satisfaction, swept me up in his arms, and strode into the castle. Every detail inside the castle was designed according to my preferences. There was even an enormous music room with an antique cello worth millions. “Your hand can’t play for long periods, but you could play something for me occasionally, couldn’t you?” Ethan wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. I looked at that cello. The scar on my right wrist throbbed with phantom pain. He’d broken my hand, destroyed my dreams, and now he wanted me to perform in this gilded cage for him alone. “Sure.” I turned around, cupped his face, and smiled with infinite tenderness. “Ethan, next Friday is my birthday. I’d like to hold a small private recital for you at the concert hall downtown. Just the two of us. Would that be okay?” Ethan frowned slightly. I knew. His instinct was to reject me appearing in any public venue, even a privately reserved concert hall. “Wouldn’t here be better? Just us.” “But I want to give you a proper surprise.” I leaned against him, acting coy. “I need to go to the studio to rehearse for a few days. Don’t worry, I’ll come home on time every day.” Looking at me, Ethan finally compromised. “Fine, I agree. But I’m sending bodyguards with you.” “Thank you.” I stood on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his lips. Next Friday was exactly when I’d receive my new identity and leave this place. This recital was the final “gift” I was preparing for Ethan. Over the following days, I went to the studio to “rehearse” every day. The bodyguards stood guard outside the door, never more than a step away. But they didn’t know that what I played in the practice room each day was just a recording. I myself was in the soundproof room, confirming the final escape route through encrypted networks with black market contacts. Everything was proceeding methodically. Until three days before departure, an unwelcome visitor shattered the calm. Mara, her belly protruding, wearing sunglasses and surrounded by bodyguards, swaggered into my studio. The guards outside tried to stop her, but were blocked by Mara’s people. “Stella, stop playing that cello. It sounds awful.” Mara pushed open the practice room door, removed her sunglasses, and looked down at me sitting behind my cello. I stopped playing and looked up at her. “Mara, trespassing is illegal.” “Trespassing? Get this straight. Half of everything Ethan owns is mine. I’m the legal Mrs. Laurent!” Mara walked up to me and slapped a photocopy on my music stand. “Look clearly. This is my marriage certificate with Ethan. What are you? Just a pet he keeps on the side!” I didn’t even glance at the paper. I stood up and smoothed my skirt. “Is that so? If you’re the legal Mrs. Laurent, then why are you running to me like a rat that can’t see daylight, belly and all, looking for validation?” “You!” Mara’s sore spot had been hit. Her face instantly twisted viciously.

Stella POV “You think Ethan really loves you?” Mara glared at me through gritted teeth. “He just pities you! Your crippled hand. I had someone crash into you! Not only didn’t Ethan blame me, he married me! You really think you’re some kind of treasure?” Mara thought revealing the truth would make me break down, make me go crazy. Instead, I just looked at her quietly, even with a trace of pity. “Mara, you’re truly pathetic.” I laughed softly. “You think you won? You used every means, took on charges of deliberate assault, all for a piece of paper. But whose bed does he sleep in every night? Who does he hold in the palm of his hand? You’re carrying his child, yet you don’t even have the right to stand by his side openly.” “Shut up!” Mara lost all rationality from the provocation and raised her hand to slap my face. I didn’t dodge. I even tilted my face slightly upward. Just as Mara’s hand was about to land, the practice room door was violently kicked open. “Stop!” A roar rang out as Ethan charged in like an enraged lion, grabbed Mara’s wrist, and flung her viciously to the floor. “Ahh!” Mara clutched her belly, screaming in pain. Ethan didn’t even look at her. He anxiously pulled me into his arms, checking me over. “Stella, are you okay? Did she hurt you?” I shook my head, my voice trembling slightly. “Ethan, who is she? Why did she say… she’s your wife? And about my hand…” Ethan’s body went rigid, panic flashing in his eyes. He turned his head and stared at Mara on the floor with a look that could cut her into a thousand pieces. “Ethan… my belly hurts so much…” Mara’s face was deathly pale. Blood was seeping out beneath her. Ethan clenched his jaw and coldly ordered the bodyguards: “Take her to the hospital. Without my permission, she’s not to leave that hospital room!” The guards quickly dragged Mara out. Only the two of us remained in the practice room. Ethan turned around and held me tightly, his voice shaking. “Stella, don’t listen to that crazy woman’s nonsense. She’s insane. She escaped from the psychiatric hospital. My only wife is you.” I leaned against him, listening to his strong heartbeat, feeling nothing but deep irony. Even now, he was still lying to me. He thought he could control everything, playing everyone like puppets. “Ethan, I’m so scared.” I hugged him back, burying my face in his chest, my voice muffled. “You’re all I have. You must never lie to me.” “I swear, I’ll never lie to you, never leave you.” Ethan kissed the top of my head, his tone bordering on deranged. I closed my eyes and smiled. Yes, you’ll never leave me. Because I’m the one who’s going to abandon you. After Mara’s disruption, Ethan’s control reached its peak. He took me straight home, confiscated my phone, cut off the internet, and even had the windows sealed shut. “Stella, it’s too dangerous outside. Just stay home. The recital is canceled. I’ll stay with you. We won’t go anywhere.” Ethan was like an obsessed madman, never leaving my side for a moment. I didn’t resist or throw tantrums. I let him do as he pleased. He didn’t dare sleep through entire nights, staring at me fixedly, afraid I’d disappear if he blinked. Two days left until departure. I knew I had to make Ethan lower his guard, or I’d never be able to leave.

Stella POV Late at night, Ethan leaned against the headboard, eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, still gripping my hand tightly. I slowly opened my eyes, looked at his haggard appearance, and reached out with my undamaged left hand to gently stroke his cheek. “Ethan, I can’t sleep with you watching me like this.” My voice was soft. Ethan grabbed my hand and pressed it against his face, his voice hoarse. “Stella, don’t be angry with me. I’m just so terrified of losing you. Don’t believe a single word that crazy woman said.” “I don’t believe her. I only believe you.” I sat up and voluntarily embraced him, kissing the corner of his lips. “Ethan, we’ve been married five years. How could I doubt you because of some stranger’s words? I was just frightened by her.” Ethan’s body trembled violently. He held me even tighter, as if trying to fuse me into his bones and blood. “Stella… my Stella…” He buried his head in the crook of my neck. A tear actually fell. I felt the wetness on my neck, my heart ice cold. Crocodile tears. “Ethan, tomorrow is my birthday.” I said softly. “Since the recital is canceled, why don’t you go to the office tomorrow to finish your work, then come home early to celebrate with me? Okay?” Ethan looked up at me. The defensive walls in his heart finally cracked. “Okay, I promise you.” Ethan kissed my forehead. “I’ll come back early tomorrow. Be a good girl and wait for me at home.” “I’ll wait for you.” Early the next morning, Ethan unusually put on a black suit. Before leaving, he held me and kissed me over and over, as if he could never get enough. “Stella, wait for me to come back.” “Okay.” I smiled and straightened his tie. As the door closed with a click, I dropped my smile. I turned and walked into the bedroom, retrieving a waterproof bag from a hidden compartment under the bed. Inside were my new passport and documents, along with a plane ticket to Vienna. The name read: Sera West. From today on, Stella no longer existed in this world. I didn’t take a single thing Ethan had bought. Not one piece of clothing, not one piece of jewelry. I changed into the most ordinary black athletic wear, put on a baseball cap and mask. When I reached the living room, I stopped and removed the ring I’d worn on my fourth finger for five years. The diamond ring clattered onto the table. Beside it was a document I’d prepared long ago. “Waiver of Property Rights.” I wanted nothing. Only freedom. I took one last look at this cage that had held me for five years, then turned without hesitation and opened the door. The bodyguards outside started to block me. I pulled out Ethan’s backup phone and said coldly: “Mr. Laurent asked me to get something from the underground garage. Are you going to follow me?” The guards exchanged glances, not daring to disobey Ethan’s orders, and stepped aside. I entered the elevator and pressed the button for the second basement level. As the elevator doors closed, I completely severed all ties with this world. In the underground garage, an inconspicuous black car with fake plates was already waiting. I opened the door and got in. “Airport.” The car shot out of the garage like an arrow and merged into the endless stream of traffic. Several hours later. Thirty thousand feet above sea level. The international flight to Vienna cruised smoothly through the clouds. I sat in the window seat, watching the brilliant sunset outside, and gently removed my mask.The flight attendant pushed her cart over, smiling as she asked: “Miss West, would you like something to drink?” I turned my head and smiled. “Champagne, please.” I raised my glass and clinked it gently against the clouds outside the window. Goodbye, Ethan.

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